Sated
by Lost In Rotation
Summary: Katniss was ready for the war to be over, but didn't know what life afterwards was supposed to be. A story set in between the final chapters of Mockingjay and the epilogue, following canon. Updated once a week. Reviews/feedback are much loved and appreciated.
1. The Bakery (Spring)

I could tell something was bothering him from the pensive way he sat at the front door, legs pulled to his chest. He looked eerily like he did when we were first in the Capitol, sitting by the window in our lavish rooms at the training center. His look as he stares down at the sheets of rain pouring from the sky wasn't as dark as it was back in the Capitol while he watched the citizens of Panem celebrating our pending doom, but it still carried a heavy weight.

Silently, I slid down the opposite side of the door frame from him. Stretching my legs out before me, I made a point of resting my leg against the side of his, the fabric of our pants the only thing separating my burned skin from his prosthetic limb. Sometimes, I found it easier to let him sit in silence and ride out the darkness inside of him. There were moments when I saw a monstrous flash in his eyes, a look that so clearly wasn't Peeta. I would never admit it to him, but that look scared me more than anything else since the end of the war.

"Talk to me," I broke the silence softly, my head turning to follow his gaze into the rain. The strength of the rain limited our line of sight, and I couldn't tell if the lights in Haymitch's home were on or not.

His shoulders seemed to both shrug and remain completely still at the same time. It was something only Peeta could pull off. "I've been thinking about going to see the bakery," he admitted, though his eyes never turned toward me as he spoke.

Words churned in my mind and my throat, but I couldn't get them past my lips. We had both suffered so much, and he had come such a long way in his rehabilitation in the Capitol under the watchful eye of Dr. Aurelius. I did not want to risk saying something that would cause a backslide. I couldn't afford to lose Peeta again. I doubted either one of us could survive it.

Only then did he turn to face me. "The bakery burned in the attack on District Twelve from the Capitol," he said, the words thick on his tongue. "Real or not real?"

"Real," I told him. Studying his face, I tried to gauge his reaction, but he was devoid of any.

"My family all died in the attack," he stated next. I knew it would follow, but it still caught me off guard. The ease with which he said the words in a monotonous voice. As if he didn't believe them, as if it meant nothing if it were true. "Real or not real?" he asked, and his eyes caught mine. I saw a flicker of emotion then and realized how hard he must be struggling to keep it under control. It was hard to see Peeta suffer, but it was even worse to watch him try to hide the pain.

It was only a one syllable word, four letters long, but I couldn't speak it. If I said it, it would make it true in his mind. A part of me was surprised he hadn't asked before, in the first week of his return. Perhaps it was easier to ignore it than to face the uncertainty and the possibility it could bring. I was guilty myself of ignoring numerous calls from my mother since my return, so I certainly couldn't blame him.

"Real," I finally choked out as I leaned forward, arching my legs to slide myself closer to him. From the center of the doorframe, I placed my hands on his knees. Fumbling for the appropriate thing to do, I settled with squeezing his knees in what I hoped was a reassuring gesture.

A short, simple nod was his only response. His eyes would no longer meet mine. We both knew he knew the truth. Neither one of us wanted to admit it.

"Peeta," I whispered, but a shake of his head cut me off. He didn't want comfort, at least not in that moment. It would come later, once he could make sense of the truth and come to terms with it. So instead, I continued to hold his knees to let him know I was there.

"I think I should go see it," he said after a long silence.

A thousand protests arose inside me, but I squashed them all. Part of me knew he would only truly believe if he saw it for himself. After all, I hadn't really believed the truth about District Thirteen existing or District Twelve being reduced to rubble until I had witnessed both with my own eyes. "I think you should too," I admitted, though it killed me.

"Will you come with me?" he asked, his voice hesitant for the first time since his return. It was a rare change of events to have to be the strong one. To be the one to lend Peeta strength was a duty I took to heart and vowed to always perform. We had not been able to save him from the Quarter Quell, and I hadn't been able to save him from Snow, but I would never let anything happen to him again.

"Of course," I told him simply, because that was all there was to say. But after a second thought, I added with a sad smile a soft, "Always," just for good measure.


	2. The Rubble

I was at least able to convince him to hold off on the walk until the weather passed. I tried to get him to put it off until the morning, but he would not be dissuaded. That attribute was just one of the things I admired about him. Once he set his mind to something, he was determined to see it through. Even his affections for me would not sway him.

Once the rain stopped and the ominous clouds that had gathered overhead dispersed, he pulled on a sweater and I slid into my father's hunting jacket. Stuffing our feet into boots, we barely even bothered to shut the front door behind us. Few others had returned to District Twelve. Though the reasons upon relocation were surely personal for each person, I had the feeling the most common reason matched my mother's. Hurt and pain and suffering seeped into the ground and the parts of buildings that remained in District Twelve. The mass grave out by the Meadow was a stark and sullen reminder to all of what we had lost, and for most it was too much to face.

I didn't blame them. If anything, I envied them. I wished I could leave this place behind and move on with my life. If I thought I could have, I would have. But I knew that no amount of distance would ever be able to mend my broken heart. I had witnessed and been a party to too much already in my short life, and there was nowhere in Panem I could go that I could escape that simple realty. So in a way, I was grateful that Haymitch had brought me home and stayed himself, and I would be forever thankful that Peeta had joined us. We would never escape the horrors of the past few years, but hopefully we would at least find a way to manage them together, however broken we felt.

All the thoughts that the walk brought up did little to better my mood. When Peeta hesitantly took my hand in his as we silently walked, I did not pull away. The burns covering my body would have been an embarrassment if I had cared, but Peeta had already seen much darker things inside of me. My physical appearance hardly seemed to matter, at least around him. Instead of slipping my hand into the pocket of my jacket, I pulled our joined hands to my side, so that he could feel the touch of my skin better. As we approached town, I wanted to root him in reality and comfort him as much as possible.

It shocked me that, since his return, he had attempted little more. With the miracle that seemed to be his recovery at the hands of Dr. Aurelius, which was staggering considering my own lack of progress with the man, I expected a discussion about what we were if nothing else. I wasn't ready for it, but I expected it nonetheless. After all, his first act after returning to District Twelve was to plant flowers at my house in a heartwarming gesture, even if I didn't fully appreciate it at the time. But it had been a week, and he had not spoken a word about where we ought to go from there. I greatly appreciated it, but also greatly feared that it still lingered, unspoken and loitering just around the corner. I knew the time would eventually have to come, but if he was content with holding my hand, I was not going to say anything for the time being.

His grip on mine tightened as we moved deeper into town. In the quiet that always followed a rain shower, I could hear the hitch in his breathing and the elevated quickness to his breaths. I gave his hand a squeeze as we continued on until there was nowhere else to go.

I had walked through town a few times when I was feeling deeply depressed and angry and had even stopped by the bakery a time or two when my thoughts inevitably turned to Peeta and what he was doing. I had seen the damage and thus I knew what to expect. But standing there with him, it felt different. It was a thousand times worse because it was a hundred times more personal. It wasn't just the place where we bought our bread or where I sold game to the baker. It was Peeta's home, and the memory of his family. And it struck me deep and true.

I wanted to pull him away and shield him from all of it, but I knew it was no use. He needed to see it and to come to terms with it for himself. I had done the same when I went back to our family's house, and I had no right to try to deprive him of the same moment. Yet I still yearned to; after all, we protected each other. That's simply what we did, and letting him stand there and soak in the realization of the truth seemed to be the opposite of what I ought to do.

It was odd, how preserved the rubble seemed. It had been months, perhaps even a year or more - I tried not to keep track - since the attack, and yet it looked as if it could have happened the previous day. Even the air had that quality to it - the kind that you inhaled and it smelled of ash. The whole town smelled like the mines used to, though they had been closed upon our return from the Capitol.

It took a moment for the realization to hit Peeta, but I could tell the precise moment. When the truth settled upon him, he sank to his knees amongst the charred remains that had been blasted into the pathway. He let out a sound I had never heard from him before, a horrible, pathetic wail of despair. His head sank into his hands as he bent over, and I could hear him start up a mantra to remind himself of who he was, of what was real.

Watching him fall apart, it felt as if my heart was being ripped from my chest. After our first Games, all I wanted to do was find a way to save him. He, of all people, deserved that. And yet I couldn't even spare him from this moment. Collapsing next to him, I hesitantly brought my hands to his shoulders. Being together was still new to us since his return and after everything that had transpired due to his hijacking. I still didn't know how far his limits stretched when it came to me. I was terrified to push him too far, afraid I would somehow undo all the progress he had made with his work in the Capitol.

I tried to call him name, to bring him back to the moment, but the word refused to leave my lips. His shoulders shook beneath my own unsteady hands, and he emitted the sound again. It was even more heart wrenching the second time. It was the same sound that Buttercup made whenever he curled up and called for Prim, who we both knew wouldn't answer.

"I'm sorry," I told him, the words scratching my suddenly dry throat. Cautiously, I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, pulling him against me as I sank into him. "I'm so, so sorry." I knew the words wouldn't help. They never made a dent in the blackness of my heart when others spoke them to me. But I had nothing else to say. There was no reason for their death, apart from the ruthlessness that had been Snow. There was no sense of justice now, even after everything that had been accomplished. They were simply gone, and nothing I could say would change that fact.

The fight left him in a singular moment. His body went slack against mine, and I teetered in my hunch until I fell back onto my butt. Refusing to release my hold, I pulled him back with me. It only served to make his sobs push through him harder as he turned into my embrace. While Snow used Peeta as a tool against me in the Capitol, I grew used to seeing Peeta broken. And while he struggled against the programming and the damage inflicted upon him, I watched him break all over again, time and time again. But seeing him this way was the most painful of all, because I knew I would be useless in bringing him comfort.

I had always been, and would always be, the harbinger of bad. I couldn't bring comfort or help heal him. I couldn't make the loss of his family, of his entire world, any better. All I could think of in that moment was what he had said to me on the beach in the clock arena. He had handed me the locket, which he had planned even before we returned to Snow's Games, and told me that I had people to fight for, to live for. And he had said he had no one left that needed him. What he hadn't said was that he had needed them, and now they were gone. And for the first time, it was real for him.

Tucking my cheek against his temple, I closed my eyes and held him tight. If I opened my mouth and tried to comfort him, I knew I would only make it worse. But I would sit there, and I wouldn't let him go until he felt well enough to pull away.

So we sat. The sky slowly darkened above us, but we didn't move an inch. Afternoon gave way to evening which turned to nightfall before Peeta finally stirred. When he moved, it was swift and with purpose. He rose to his knees as I hastened to remove my hold quickly enough, brushed off the legs of his pants, and extended a hand to me to help me to my feet. I took it, if only to give him something to do.

Again, I felt as if I should say something. Anything. But nothing came to mind. "Let's go home," he said, his tone firm with the decision in his words. As he moved to release my hand, I tightened my hold. I had this irrational fear that if I let go of him in that moment, he would somehow manage to collapse completely into himself like a dying star. I wouldn't let that happen.

"Are you sure?" I asked. Though night had fallen, I could still make out the differences between the black of the night and the black of the charred remains of his bakery.

"Come on, Katniss," he responded. He let me hold on to his hand as he took a few steps towards me and then a few more past me, back towards the Victors' Village. "I'll cook us up some dinner. You must be hungry."

He didn't look back as I turned to follow him. I kept waiting for him to pause and glance back over his shoulder. His eyes stayed trained ahead all the way to my front door. I almost missed his whispered, "Thank you," as he held open the front door for me when we reached my house and went inside.


	3. Stay

Dinner was never fancy unless Greasy Sae prepared it. When it was either just me or me and Peeta, dinner was a simple affair. He or I would fix up whatever I had recently shot, caught, or picked and there was always a loaf of fresh bread. On special occasions, I even got to enjoy a fancy pastry or a decorated cake.

Within his first three days back in District Twelve, we had fallen into the routine of taking our meals together. There was something depressing about eating alone, even if our stomachs were full and our hunger satisfied. Perhaps it was the constant reminder that we were now alone or simply it was just the joy of the company of others. The reasons behind the motives didn't matter, especially when we both gravitated toward each other. He would show up to visit and stay to eat, or vice versa. One way or another, it always seemed to work out.

After the trip into town, the last thing I wanted was to sit in the large, empty house by myself. I took immense relief in following him into the kitchen. Just his presence was comforting, though I didn't stop to allow myself to wonder why. "What are you hungry for?" he asked, as if I were the guest and he the host.

With a shrug of my shoulders, I moved deeper into the vast expanse of the kitchen. Aimlessly rooting through mostly empty cabinets, I pulled a few spices from here and there, setting them on the counter as I went. Peeta moved to the refrigerator, opening it up and pulling out a straw basket filled with fresh berries I'd collected just the day before. When he stretched him arm out to me, tipping the basket forward so I could get a look at its contents, I gave a silent nod of approval. He set them down on the counter and disappeared behind the sleek metal of the refrigerator door once more.

Everything in the house made me feel like I was in a house in the Capitol, not in own home. I had only moved into this house to afford a better standard of living for my mother and Prim. I would have moved back to our little home in a heartbeat if I could have. After everything I'd been through, the comforts of this lifestyle hardly seemed important.

I found the particular bread box I was looking for and set it down on the counter next to the basket of berries. Closing the cabinet, I effortlessly plopped myself up on the counter next to them, plucking a berry from the center of the basket and popping it into my mouth.

"Peeta," I called his name, trying to hide the mischief in my voice as I snagged the largest berry I saw. As his head appeared around the door, I took quick aim and flicked it before he had a chance to react. Though the berry bounced and fell to the floor, I took satisfaction in the fact that it had landed squarely on his closed lips. The ghost of a smile that followed was a prize in itself.

"Katniss Everdeen, playing with berries," he said, a hidden meaning buried in the words.

"They aren't nightlock," I reminded him, taking another for myself and squishing it between my teeth. They were the perfect balance between sweet and tart, and I savored the flavor. I hadn't had the chance to take Peeta into the woods with me to gather since his return, but I planned to within the coming days. It would give us something useful to do, and I hoped it would take his mind off the bakery.

"You are never going to let me live that down, are you?" he asked with a sigh as he pulled the ceramic bowl of butter from the refrigerator and closed the door. Setting it on the counter next to the bread, he moved to find a knife hidden somewhere in the chaos of the drawers.

"Probably not," I answered truthfully, wasting no time waiting for him. By the time he had found one, I had already ripped the bread into four equal pieces.

At the sight, he shook his head in disappointment at my manners, or lack thereof. I held out a large piece of bread as a sort of apology. When he took it, I ripped off a chunk of mine and dragged the corner through the butter. We could have warmed either the bread or the butter or both, but neither of us seemed in the mood to make an ordeal out of the meal.

I waited for him to hop up onto the counter next to me, but he settled himself by leaning against the counter by my legs. "If this is your idea of cooking me dinner," I commented as I tore another piece of bread off, "you have a lot to learn."

"If that if your definition of a thank you," he retorted just as easily, "you do as well."

I couldn't hide the smile that turned either edge of my lips then. It was unbelievable to be standing in the kitchen, joking with him. There had been a time when everything about Peeta hurt me, and everything about me hurt him, thanks to Snow. And for a while, I wasn't sure we would ever get past that moment. This moment felt like such a huge step forward, and my heart swelled to think he truly was cured from the effects of the tracker jacker venom.

Sure, he still had moments where he had to root himself back into realty. But then again, so did I. In that moment, however, the possibilities felt endless. "You should stay tonight," I told him, the words tumbling out before I even thought about what they meant or how they sounded. To hide myself from his steady, questioning gaze, I then busied myself with stuffing my mouth full of berries to keep from blurting out anything else.

I had only been thinking about, or perhaps longing for, the feeling his presence had brought me on the train and on our Victory Tour. After escaping from the arena the second time, I had hardly had time to sleep, but when I did even Prim's closeness was not always enough to drive off the nightmares that plagued my sleep. Peeta had an uncanny way of keeping the monsters at bay, and I missed that. When I could stop myself from worrying about him or my mother for the past six months, I slept fitfully and often woke drenched in sweat and still screaming. I even had Haymitch knocking down my front door one particularly horrid night.

Just the possibility of a decent night's sleep was alluring, and that was likely the reasoning behind the sudden exclamation that sounded like so much more. I couldn't bear to look at him while I awaited a response and moved back to my bread once I swallowed the mouthful of berries.

"My house is awfully lonely," he mused, though he made no indication of what he meant by the words. He was teasing me, as if thinking I would beg him to consider my proposition. I would not beg, no matter how much I longed to fall asleep in the security of his arms again. I would never make him feel inclined to do anything for me ever again. I had vowed that to myself after seeing the heinous way he had been used as a tool against me because of his affections toward me. I would never use him. Any and everything he did, it would be of his own volition.

As we continued to eat in relative silence, it dawned on me that he had never actually answered my question. Though, I realized, I hadn't really phrased it as a question to begin with. Darkness fell completely outside, leaving us under the artificial glow of the soft lights in the kitchen. Once I had taken my fill of bread and berries, I returned both to their rightful homes.

Turning to Peeta, I prepared myself to say goodnight. But he was already moving through the house, away from the front door and towards the stairs that led upstairs. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding and followed him.


	4. A New Day

It was seasonally warm. Though my skin prickled with bumps, my entire skin glowed with heat. It was a different type of heat, of fire, than I was accustomed to. Flaming arrows and carefully crafted outfits had never had the same kind of effect on me as I felt this close to his skin. It did not take me long to realize that this proximity was exactly what set the heat dancing across my skin.

"Katniss." The way he said my name was so much more intimate than I had ever imagined possible coming from him. And when his strong hands came up to cup my cheek and pulled me closer, I couldn't resist. I had resisted him for so long, but no longer now. "Catnip," he whispered then, the words leaving his mouth a breath away from my own. As I inhaled, I breathed him in completely.

My hands moved on their own accord, pulling him closer. I had never been afforded the luxury of the concept of romance. I had been too busy caring for my mother and my sister. The mere thought of Prim sent my stomach squirreling, but I pushed the unease aside. I shouldn't feel guilty about wanting a life of my own, of trying to find my own happiness. And he wanted to give it to me. It was written so clearly in his expression.

"Oh, Catnip," he breathed again and as he did, his lips brushed across mine. "I'm sorry." His hand stroked my cheek as his forehead fell to my shoulder. "I am so sorry. I never wanted it to end this way. I wanted you. You and freedom. Freedom for our families. It's all I ever wanted for us."

Then the world truly was on fire, and it wasn't just my proximity to him that burned me inside. I felt flames licking my skin. Looking down I staggered back in shock, pulling free from his embrace. My skin danced under the flicker of the flames, and burns pulsated in unnatural waves impossibly across my arms.

"No," I whispered, the word lost in the crackle of fire. I could see over his shoulder, and my stomach plummeted as I pushed forward. My feet moved as if stuck in tar; the faster I tried to move, the slower I went. "Prim!" I screamed, for I knew what happened next all too well.

His arms caught me around the waist, preventing what little progress I could make. "It's too late, Katniss," he said as I stared forward in horror. The planes flew overhead, the loading bay doors dropping open and the little tinkling boxes descending daintily in the sky.

"Prim!" I screamed again, the volume rising until it scratched my vocal chords. I felt like I was back in the town square, volunteering to take her place when she was selected as tribute. I clawed against his grip, trying to pull away. If only I could reach her, I could save her, I thought.

"It's too late for all of us," Gale murmured against my ear before spinning me around and pulling me into his chest just as the bombs exploded.

Her name caught in his shirt, muffled by the fabric as I sank hopelessly against him. There was no point in fighting him, I knew. She was gone. My little duck, taken so violently and senselessly from this world.

When I tried to pull away, he caught my face again. But instead of the calloused hands from working in the mine, they were the seasoned hands of bread and paint. As his fingers traced my neck and cheeks, they felt soft and comforting. And when he dropped his face to mine, I didn't pull away. If anything, I brought him closer. For if I could close my eyes and lose myself in him, I could block out the reality of what stood behind me, forever lost at the hands of the one person I had trusted to keep my family safe.

When I opened my eyes, I thought for a moment the world was truly afire. Red light danced across the walls and windows and for a startling moment, I wondered it if hadn't all been a dream. I wondered if the Girl on Fire was destined to die a fiery death, even in the aftermath of the war. Then my wits returned and I saw the light for what it was - the morning sunrise just starting to peak above the horizon.

As soon as I started to shift in the bed, I froze. The warmth emitted behind me and the weight across my stomach alerted me that I was not alone. Rolling my head slowly to the side, I saw Peeta's peacefully sleeping profile though the red light.

The pieces of reality took a moment to settle into place, but then I remembered. He had returned from the Capitol, we had gone to see what little remained of the bakery, we had come back to the house. I had asked him to stay and he had obliged. As all the thoughts processed through my head, slowly I came to realize I was not in danger of the world bursting alight around me, and my heart rate gradually decreased.

Head settling back against the pillow, I forced myself to concentrate on my breathing as I worked to calm down. I took a little comfort in the fact that I had not awoken screaming, as I had every other night up until that point. The details of the dream differed slightly, but the main premise was always the same. I would think about the possibility of a life with Gale, and then I would relive the most horrible moment of my life. Gale would morph into Peeta, and I would be shielded from witnessing what happened next, even though nothing could stop me from knowing.

Somedays, I wished I didn't. Ignorance promised bliss, or so they said. I didn't think I would be able to find bliss, but I thought perhaps I might at least be able to dream of a slightly better outcome, if I had not witnessed it with my own eyes.

My eyes dampened and moisture rolled across the bridge of my nose and down my cheek, pulled hard by gravity, before I realized I was crying. Shifting slightly to free one arm, I wiped furiously at the tears. Crying would not bring her back; I'd found that out the hard way over the past several months. Nothing would bring her back.

The room suddenly felt too warm, and the urge to get outside and escape the confines of the house overpowered me. Pushing back the sheets, I halted my movements only when Peeta's arm tightened around my waist. He muttered something incoherent, and I couldn't tell if he was awake or asleep. Pausing my irrational flee, I rolled onto my other side to face him. Though his eyes were closed, his arm shifted in a way that told me he was at least partially conscious.

"Don't escape just yet," he murmured as he pulled me closer. As my knees bumped against his, I couldn't help but muse at his choice of words. How had he come to know me so well as to know I needed to escape?

"You had a dream about Prim, didn't you?" he asked. His eyes fluttered open, though they were still weighed down by the drag of sleep.

"Yes," I admitted, since there was no point in lying.

"And Gale?"

Here I hesitated, as I could find perhaps a reason or two to lie about Gale. For starters, I wasn't even sure why I couldn't stop dreaming about him. I certainly didn't spend my waking hours thinking about him. I had declined all attempts on his behalf to reach out, and I staunchly refused to go visit him once he settled down in District Two. "Yes," I finally said, but this word was much more softly spoken than its predecessor.

Though sleep still clouded his mind, I could see the million questions that flinted across his face. Not all of them would have to do with Gale, but a lot of them would. Mercifully, they remained unspoken, at least for the time being. Instead of taking the opening and forging ahead, Peeta closed his eyes and dragged his fingers lazily across the fabric of my shirt.

"Sorry I didn't help," he spoke after a moment.

It took me a moment to understand his words. The fact that he could somehow blame himself for my nightmares felt absurd. "Don't say that," I insisted as I stared into his shirt, no longer able to close my eyes for fear of what I might see. "You do help. You've helped every day since you came back. You'll keep helping every day that you're here."

I should have said that I didn't deserve the help or the attention. I didn't. I was too selfish and too thankful to have him back to want to say anything that might jeopardize it. "It'll just take time." Time. Would I ever be able to forgive Gale? Would time and distance ever dull that pain in my heart that I felt when I thought about him and what he had done? I wasn't certain, though everyone seemed to tell me it would and I was pretty sure it wouldn't.

"Time," Peeta mused, eyes still closed. "I guess we have an abundance of that now."

"I guess we do." I agreed. And instead of escaping into the woods, I laid in bed a little while longer, comforted by his presence and no longer so desperate to flee.


	5. Rebuilding

For a while, life felt almost happy. He didn't mention the bakery, and I didn't have the heart to bring it up. One of us should have. It was part of the grieving process, or so I was told. One had to face reality before one accepted it. Of course, I thought the psychological analysis was wasted on us; we were already damaged beyond repair. Though I would admit, Peeta came back from the Capitol better than I ever would have thought possible. Some days, I could almost forget everything we had gone through, everything we still held close to our tortured hearts.

The bakery slipped to the back of my mind, as did Peeta's family. It was hard to admit but Peeta, and Haymitch by proxy, had become my family now that my mother had moved on and Prim was... even Buttercup had become part of our collected group of outcasts if you counted him, which I didn't.

It wasn't until a few weeks later in the woods that my thoughts even turned to the bakery. Jacket on, bow across my shoulder, I trekked leisurely through the familiar grounds with no particular aim for the day. The game was light for the picking, and I wasn't in the mood to take a life. Following the doctor's orders, I was simply out enjoying the fresh air and 'what this world still has to give you'.

The noise didn't ring in my ears until I rounded a blind corner onto a path beaten through the trees. I stopped short at the sight of him, and he continued on with his back to me taking no notice of my arrival. There had been a time when I would have not only heard the grind of the saw against the tree but sensed another human being. Perhaps I had become too relaxed in this new life of relative peace and comfort.

Peeta was as loud as always, and I was as stealthy as I had been in the prime of my hunting days with Gale. He was as oblivious as could be as I approached slowly, and I took the time to study him as I moved closer. His shoulders were broad, and his footing was sure. If I hadn't know for sure that one of his legs was artificial, I never would have guessed. The muscles in his arms tightened and released with each drag of the saw against the thick trunk of the tree.

"One of the perks of being a victor," I said as I angled myself to the side to move around to face him, my voice pitched high in a poor imitation of Effie, "is that you never have to work another day in your life."

Halting the saw mid motion, Peeta looked up with a flick of his head. His arm reached up to wipe away the perspiration, and I noticed for the first time the sweat that held his shirt tightly to his arms and chest. "What else would we do with our time?" he asked.

I was used to a certain amount of suggestive innuendo to comments such as this one from Peeta, but this remark held nothing but a mild irritation with what our lives had become. Setting my bow and quiver gently against a tree a few paces away, I moved to stand beside him and examine his progress. "Eat, regurgitate, eat some more. Dance and celebrate our newfound freedoms. Enjoy the life being a victor was supposed to be instead of the one we were dealt. What else?"

"Well I don't know about you, but none of those sound very appealing to me."

The corners of my lips pulled up into a weak smirk of agreement. "So what are you doing instead?" I asked.

"I'm going to rebuild the bakery," he responded, as if it were the most natural thought in the world. With that comment, the memory of standing in front of the burned rubble slammed into me with full force. I should have realized when Peeta made no effort to bring it up again that something was looming just over the horizon. I just never expected this declaration to be it.

Racking my brain to find something to say, I came up with nothing. Nothing could have prepared me for his proclamation, just like nothing I could have said would likely have changed his mind. Peeta had shown over the past two years that he would do anything to protect me and do what was best for me, but I knew there was nothing I could say that would convince him to change his mind on this decision.

So I didn't try. We'd argued enough since we were thrown into this world together, and this fight wasn't one I had the heart for. Not then, not even when I thought it was a terrible mistake that would pick at the wounds of his fragile heart. I was tired of fighting, and it was easier to resign and give into his wishes. A small part of me also thought he might find some peace eventually working in a bakery again, if he survived the torture it put him through first.

Pushing my braid over my shoulder to rest against my back, I moved closer. Flexing my hands in my gloves, I positioned myself on the opposite end of the saw from Peeta. As he pulled it toward him, I pushed. As he pushed it away, I pulled. When he looked at me quizzically, I tried to muster a smile I didn't quite feel, "You're wasting daylight, Mellark. That bakery isn't going to build itself."

And just like that, things began to change once more, and the future remained as cloudy as ever.


	6. Balancing Act

"You have to talk to him," I said as soon as the door opened. His shoulders were already so hunched that he couldn't drop them any further at the displeasure of seeing me on his doorstep. To give him credit, I swear he tried. With a deep sigh that rumbled through him, he pushed the door open a fraction further. Not waiting for me to accept this small invitation, he stepped back into the darkness, knowing I would follow.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, sweetheart, but I could have sworn I saw you helping him lug wood back not an hour ago." His surly words told me that he wasn't happy with me. His somewhat rational words, however, told me he'd recently received a delivery from the Capitol that kept him off the edge. I wondered if he would ever find he way out from under the influence of a bottle, but I wasn't going to hold my breath.

"So he told you what he's planning." It didn't surprise me, but it stung a little that Peeta had mentioned it to Haymitch and yet said nothing to me. Though we owed our lives to Haymitch several times over, it didn't mean he was a respectable confident with sound judgment.

"Don't look at me like that," Haymitch grunted as he walked through the archway into the living room and sunk onto the dusty armchair. With a half-hearted gesture, he motioned me to the couch.

Though the smell in his house had been worse, it had certainly been better as well. I questioned how long it had been since he had last bathed, but didn't dare ask aloud. Holding my breath, I lowered myself slowly onto the couch, trying to unsettle the least amount of dust possible. Only once I'd completely settled did I dare to take a breath and try to speak. "He won't be able to handle it," I said, voicing the fear I hadn't had the heart to say directly to Peeta. "You know he won't," I pressed, sure Haymitch would argue regardless.

He didn't disappoint. "That's not for you to decide. That boy has been through hell, and if this will bring him peace, then he ought to have it." Groping for the tumbler on the end table, Haymitch frowned when his hand found purchase only to reveal an empty glass.

"And what if it doesn't? What if it drives him back to madness? We have no idea if his deconditioning will hold. And if he relapses..."

"Then he might decide he deserves better than you," Haymitch finished, though his words were hardly the sentiment I had in mind.

I bit my lip, trying not to lash out in frustration. Spitting words back at him would only sour his mood further and accomplish nothing. It was hard, this constant clash between our personalities. Neither one of us wanted to be the one to concede on any point, but I knew I had to take these jabs from Haymitch and swallow them whole. Instead of defending myself, I told the truth, "I just can't bear to see anything happen to him. He's been through enough."

"That he has," Haymitch agreed, staggering from his chair. He made it to the mantel of the large fireplace. The half empty bottle swung by his side on his return to his chair. After he refilled his glass he extended the bottle to me.

I had a snide remark on the tip of my tongue. We had hoped that Haymitch's drinking problem would alleviate itself once the war was over, but that didn't seem likely to happen. I was just about to break my previous vow of silence and tell him he'd had enough for one day when I surprised not just him but myself by accepting the bottle. Without hesitation, I raised the bottle to my lips and took a quick, burning swig.

With a sharp grimace, I set the bottle down on the littered coffee table. "That tastes like piss," I told him.

"Then don't drink it," was his only reply.

"Just promise me you'll talk to him about it. If you see anything that looks out of the ordinary with him, you'll let me know. If I can't stop him from rebuilding the bakery, I can at least keep an eye on him to make sure he doesn't overdue it."

"Well I'll be damned," Haymitch muttered, staring at me through the amber liquid in his glass as he swirled it in his hand.

"What?" I asked, exasperated at the thought of what he would possibly throw at me next.

"Don't get me wrong," he started with another sip of his drink, "because you'll still never deserve that boy. But at least you're trying now." He finished off the remainder of the glass with amazing speed.

He didn't have to say a word for me to know I was being dismissed. As I rose carefully from the couch, I grabbed the bottle and took one more swallow before heading out. "Don't forget your geese," I shouted as I left.


	7. Confessions of a Kiss

It wasn't my intent to broach such a topic. We were sitting in silence at the small table, each chewing thoughtfully on our food. Greasy Sae had blessed us with a stew that made me feel more at home than I had in countless days. It reminded me of the Hob, and made me ignore the fact that my family home and Peeta's bakery were smoking piles of ash. As I slurped the soup that contained who knew what, I could almost forget about the fact that the meadow my father had taken me to was a mass burial ground now, the soil still freshly piled on top.

We'd spent the day working on rebuilding the bakery. Once Peeta got it in his head to do it, it became almost an obsession. If we weren't sleeping or eating, then he was working on the bakery project. Haymitch swore up and down that he'd talked to Peeta about it, but it had done nothing to dissuade him. If anything, it had added fuel to the fire of his determination, and no amount of pushing from Haymitch had resulted in anything else.

The restoration of the bakery became the talk of town, and it even made the news in the Capitol. People of Panem were still eager to gleam as much information about the star-crossed lovers from District Twelve as possible, and Peeta's work had made several news outlets. The phone had begun to ring so much with requests for interviews and visits to the district to document his progress that I'd ripped the cord from the wall in a fit of frustration the week before. We'd spent enough of our life in the spotlight, first in the Hunger Games and then in the war. All I wanted, and all Peeta needed, was peace and quiet away from the public eye so we could figure out what our lives were supposed to be again.

Perhaps it was the musing on the relationship we'd spun for the public that brought the question to the forefront of my mind. I certainly didn't realize I had been thinking of anything on the matter as we ate. But then, as if by some unseen force, the words tumbled from my mouth before I even had the chance to ponder them, "Have you ever kissed someone before?" I asked. Then, as if clarification would ever be necessary, I added, "Or been kissed?"

He glanced up from his soup bowl and laughter spilled from him. He looked so caught off guard that he dropped the spoon into the bowl, leaned back in his chair as he pushed the sleeves of his sweatshirt up, and studied me with his full attention. "You are joking, right?" he asked after a beat, squinting as if trying to gauge my reaction in the soft glow of the setting sun poking in through the open windows.

Not knowing what possessed me to ask such an asinine question, I shrugged. "I don't mean me. I meant someone else." I couldn't quite meet his gaze and instead studied the contents of my soup intently. Suddenly, I was thankful for the distance the table put between us.

"Oh, so you are serious." My fingers itched to grab the butter knife not an inch away and to stab it into the table in frustration. Anything to swipe that smirk off his face.

"Forget I asked," I said with a shake of my head, angrily grabbing my spoon and shoving soup into my mouth to prevent any further stupid questions. This topic only led down one path, and it was one I had carefully been avoiding in the weeks since his return. The media was in a frenzy to see what happened next for the Mockingjay and her devoted husband, but at that point their guess was as good as mine. I wasn't used to having countless hours on end to ponder the possibility of romance, and it didn't suit me now that I did. My brain tried to focus on anything and everything else, and I was more than happy to let it.

"Katniss, it's always been you. Ever since we were five." Even though I'd heard the story, told before the masses in his declaration of love, it felt so much more real to hear it this time. With the privacy of the walls around us and the absence of cameras and without the rest of the country watching. Though the dining room was large, the soft glow of sunset offered an intimacy I became aware of as he spoke.

I only hoped that the dimming light outside hid the blush that burned my cheeks. Letting my head tilt down toward my bowl for additional cover, I took another sip of soup. "But surely you must have kissed someone else in the meantime." Then, to emphasize my point, I added, "It's been over a decade."

"Did you?" he retorted. I didn't need to look up to know the intensity of his gaze. He knew full well that I'd kissed Gale, more than once. But his tone suggested he meant besides Gale, just as I had meant beside myself when I asked him. "I guess I just didn't see the point in going around kissing girls I knew I would never have feelings for," he concluded without giving me a chance to answer.

Silence lapsed over us again, and I ventured a glance up. His eyes were on his bowl as he ate, but I could feel his desire to look back at me and gauge my reaction. The Gale Thing still weighed heavily between us, but it was a topic I wasn't comfortable with yet. Even I was unsure about my own convoluted feelings for him. I knew that nothing would ever happen between us, not now, but that didn't mean that I didn't sometimes wonder what would have happened if things had gone differently. Could I have felt those feelings towards Gale, if Prim were still here and he haven't scurried off to District Two in shame?

Thoughts of Gale reminded me of something he had told me. I couldn't even remember the exact words, and it felt like years ago after everything that had happened in the war. I remembered, however, that he'd been almost offended when I'd asked if he'd kissed someone else or had feelings for someone else. Of course he had. And though I hated my need to compare Peeta and Gale, I couldn't help but realize this glaring difference between the two. Gale had only ever started paying attention to me as more than a friend once he realized that others might actually find me desirable as well and that perhaps I wouldn't always be available and waiting if he wanted the chance. But Peeta? Peeta had always waited for me, hoping one day I would see him.

Pushing my chair back from the table, I collected my bowl and bread plate and moved towards the kitchen without a word. My stomach twisted in knots and my appetite was effectively squashed. My brain could focus on nothing else apart from Gale and Peeta, and eating anything further would only upset my stomach more.

I heard his chair scrape against the floor behind me but didn't slow my walk until I reached the counter. Setting the bowl and plate into the sink, I gripped the edge of the counter to give my hands something to do. I almost wished for the return of my previous life. I would take the hunger and the struggle and the despondent mother to have the simpler life of caring for my sister and not having the luxury of all the time in the world to have to figure out what I wanted for myself. My life had never been about me before, and now that was all there was left and it was suffocating. I was so terrified of making the wrong choice or making a choice based on the wrong reasons that I didn't want to choose anything at all. And a part of me, a large part, reminded me that I didn't have to choose anything. At least not yet.

"I'm sorry," he said as he approached, sliding his own bowl and plate across the counter towards the sink I blocked. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable or to offend you in anyway."

How could I possibly explain that I was neither uncomfortable nor offended, but simply confused? Peeta had been aware of his feelings since we were five, and I still had no idea how to make sense of my own mess. A part of me wanted to tell him the truth; that I wanted to explore the possibility that we had something real and that it hadn't all been an act for the cameras. At times, it certainly hadn't felt like it. But if I confessed to that, I would also have to tell him that I wasn't sure if I was only turning to him now because Gale was no longer an option. Because a part of me had been drawn to Gale, too, and I still wasn't certain whether it was just out of comfort and loss or if it could have been something more with him as well.

"Please don't apologize," I said. If anything, I was the one who needed to apologize. "It wasn't anything you said," I told him as I took a step away from the counter and turned to face him. "It's just..." but I couldn't find the words to say, because everything in my mind was such a cluttered mess.

"You don't have to explain," he told me quickly. "You don't owe me anything, Katniss."

Which was, of course, the most absurd thing he could have said. I owed him so much, if not everything. And I wanted so desperately to make up for the fact that I had made his life a living hell. But I always knew that telling him so would do anything but reassure him. He was infuriatingly humble, after all.

I'd like to say I didn't know what came over me, but it wouldn't be the truth. I'd felt the urge before, used the tactic as a defensive mechanism to stop him from saying something I didn't want to hear. Only this time it felt like I did it to prevent myself from saying something I didn't want to hear. Whatever the motives, he did not seem to expect it. As I leaned toward him and angled in, he didn't react. And as my lips pressed against his, he didn't pull away.

I'd lost count of the number of times Peeta and I had kissed, but this time was different. There were no cameras watching, no motive to prove to Snow that we were as madly in love as we claimed. The only ones to witness this kiss would be us, and it made the moment so intimate that I almost immediately pulled away in regret, out of fear of what significance the kiss could hold. But then his hand caught my cheek as he stepped into me, and it was almost as if the world tilted on its axis as he tilted my head slightly back.

Though I was acutely aware of my lips, they no longer felt under my control. Instead of pulling away as intended, I moved closer. Not a breath of air remained between us, and I felt the heat radiating off his body as it had in the cave when he'd been ravaged with fever. When he deepened the kiss, I was not prepared and yet my body reacted immediately, submitting to him completely.

I felt it, then, in that exact moment. That fire deep within me, the one I'd felt that evening on the beach in the arena. When he had told me that no one needed him, and I had been so sure that I could not have survived without him. I had kissed him then to prevent him from saying things I didn't want to hear, just as I had started this kiss. But the ignition of the fire within me had nothing to do with indecision or guilt or worry and had everything to do with hunger and want and desire.

Drawing him closer, I was consumed by him. I wanted nothing more than to melt into him. Though my lungs ached for air, I could not pull away. If anything, I brought him in. It was a feeling I hadn't felt in almost a year, and I was desperate to explore it. But as I gave myself over to the feeling, I knew quickly it wouldn't last. For Peeta, the moment was not the same, as evidenced by the way his hands grasped my shoulders and abruptly pushed me away a moment later.

I gasped, not only for oxygen but from shock. Staggering a step back from the suddenness of it, it took my clouded brain a minute to register the look on his face. As his hands released my shoulders, they clinched into fists. Though I couldn't hear the words he muttered under his breath, I recognized the strain on his face, and my heart sank.

I should have expected it, of course. Dr. Aurelius had worked miracles with Peeta over the winter, but Peeta wasn't completely cured. Reaching for something to ground myself, my hand caught the counter's edge again and I gripped it desperately as I watched Peeta struggle to snap out of his head and back into reality. It dawned on me that I had been a complete idiot. I had reacted on a gut feeling, and I hadn't stopped to consider what effect it might have on him.

"You kissed me while you were helping tend to my leg in the cave in our first Hunger Games," he spoke louder, the question directed to me, "real or not real?"

I fought at the ache in my throat that made it difficult to swallow. "Real."

"You and Haymitch devised a plan to fake a romance between us in order to gain sponsors for the Games. Real or not real?"

Desperately wanting to defend myself and explain, though we'd been through these types of questions before, I fought the urge. It wouldn't help him, and would only serve to confuse him further. "Real."

"You're still playing the game since we're supposed to be the happily married star-crossed lovers from District Twelve. Real or not real?"

This question was new, but I didn't hesitate as I replied, "Not real." While I wasn't entirely certain why I had kissed him, it wasn't something staged or methodically processed and planned. And while I wasn't entirely sure my motivations were completely pure, it had had nothing to do with the illusion of our relationship put on for others.

"I'm sorry," he said, but he struggled over the words. My chest ached, to think that I had done this to him. Lost in the moment, I hadn't stopped to think how kissing him would affect him after being hijacked to hate me. Miserably, I stood silently before him, waiting for the war within him to calm.

"Should I call Aurelius?" I asked as the silence stretched on.

"No." Though the delivery didn't carry bite, the word sounded like ice. "I'm fine."

Peeta didn't lie to me; that wasn't part of who he was. I was a liar, through and through, and I had lost count of the number of ways in which I had twisted the truth and manipulated reality with him. But he was honest and good and didn't carry the ulterior motives I did. It that moment, however, I couldn't help but think that he wasn't fine at all. Still, I wouldn't push him, though I certainly was going to have a conversation with Haymitch about it.

As his face gradually relaxed, I couldn't work my own tension from my body. Snow was dead, as was Coin, and I had foolishly believed that these facts meant I was finally in control of my own life. But I realized that even from beyond the grave, they had the ability to twist and pull on the strings of my life. Even if I could sort out my own heart and figure out what I wanted, I realized for the first time that it might not be up to me at all, what my future held.


	8. Collecting

We continued to collect timber in the woods and stacked it in the ever growing pile in town. We continued to take our meals together, sometimes prepared by Greasy Sae but more and more prepared by ourselves, as if she could sense that I no longer needed to rely on her so much to keep myself alive. We continued to share a bed at night, and my nightmares came less and less. But over the following weeks, we never once mentioned the kiss in the kitchen, or his reaction. Neither one of us brought up the messy, complicated topic of relationships or feelings, nor where we ought to go from there or if my kissing Peeta might cause him to try to strangle me inadvertently.

As spring grew longer and the timber pile grew to the point where I was sure we would have excess no matter how terrible of builders we ended up being, I decided I needed a break from the bakery. I needed a day in which I did not have to think about the emotional toll rebuilding the bakery took on Peeta each and every day. I wanted a day in which we didn't need to worry about Peeta's precarious state of mind at all. Peeta joked that he was glad his little episode had finally gotten me to start up my weekly conversations with Dr. Aurelius, even if I'd only had the one so far, and it was as close to mentioning the incident as we got. I, however, couldn't joke about it at all, even if he could. It filled me with terror to even think that I still had the power to potentially release that monster caged inside of Peeta, the monster that had been born and bred solely because of his affections towards me.

As Peeta filled our canteens with water at the faucet, I moved to the study where I kept the mementos of my previous life exactly where Greasy Sae had left them. Running my fingers over the cover of the plant book, I felt the thin layer of dust that sat atop it. Widening my palm, I wiped away the dusty film and collected the book into the nook of my arm. I had been planning on taking Peeta into the woods and teaching him to forage with me, and I couldn't think of a better opportunity than now.

As I returned to the kitchen, his gaze immediately drifted to the book and he eyed it quizzically. Moving to stand next to him, careful to leave a safe distance between us, I set the book on the counter and opened it to a random page so he could see. "I thought we could restock the kitchen today," I told him, making no mention of my avoidance of the bakery project. "And I figured I could teach you how to distinguish between the plants."

"I can't promise I'll be a good student," he admitted in his self-deprecating way.

"You won't know until you try," I told him. He responded with a nod, and we moved through the house and the Victors' Village. The sight of the Meadow still caused my throat to tighten each time I passed. While not as many workers were present as what I saw during the spring, my heart ached at the sight of even one. Even one cart sparked heavy reminders of the tragedy that had fallen upon our home, our families, our friends, our neighbors. Just one cart, this many months after the end of the war and the destruction of District Twelve, was a stark reminder of the sheer magnitude of the devastation. And though more and more people returned to slowly help rebuild and move forward, the pit in the Meadow reminded me that District Twelve would be forever haunted by what had happened.

I tried not to think about it as we passed by and moved into the woods. Reminders of the bombing only served to remind me of my own loss. I'd only rung my mother once since Peeta's return, and guilt flooded me each time I realized that I used him as a crutch to anchor me to this world and to help ignore the harder parts that loomed just past the horizon.

Though the weather warmed quickly as the days grew longer, I preferred spending the days sweating out in the heat under the glare of the sun in my hunting jacket than sitting alone in the large, empty house with nothing but my thoughts to occupy me. As we hit the foliage, I found a suitable rock and motioned Peeta over as I spotted the closest plant and flipped through the book until I found the right page.

We spent the entire day in similar fashion. Peeta would point to a promising looking plant, and we would weed through the well-loved pages of the book until we found it. I would let him read the passage aloud, knowing it would stay with him better that way than if I simply explained what it was to him. Then he would make the decision whether he wanted to add some to our baskets that had begun to overflow by high noon.

We stopped at some point to refill our canteens by the creek. Peeta wiped sweat from his brow and I asked him what he wanted to eat for lunch. We hadn't bothered to bring anything with us, and I made him identify the items in the baskets as a refresher before I let him eat them. It was slow work and the day seemed to drag by endlessly. At the same time, I found myself loosening up and didn't once think about the grief that usually filled me to the brim. I had fun with Peeta, and the recent strain of all the things left unsaid and undetermined between us didn't seem to bother us in that moment in time.

I dragged the day out until the sun began to dip and we lost the light of day. We trekked back towards the district, and I thought that if I could capture that day in a bottle and preserve the memory forever, I would. It was the first day that I felt was honestly good. It wasn't soiled with painful memories and regrets and guilt about decisions made and actions took and the resulting outcomes. It was simply me and Peeta, weaving through the woods, heads bent over the book as I taught and he learned. I didn't have to worry about him having an episode, and he didn't have to worry about me collapsing into my cocoon of isolation. We spent all day, and yet the end came far too soon.


	9. Infrastructure

I knew the day would eventually come, and yet I had an irrational hope that somehow Peeta would suddenly drop the project and move on to other things. I knew how much the bakery meant to him, and I realized it was a selfish wish. But I couldn't help but think that holding onto the past would prevent him from ever moving forward. I thought the bakery would be an ever present reminder of our life in District Twelve before the war, and I had a nagging feeling that he would never truly be healed from the tracker jacker venom if part of him stayed rooted in the past.

But the day finally came, in the middle of spring, as the days started to grow hotter and longer, when Peeta announced he had cashed in some favors with some of the townspeople and they were to start construction on the bakery the following day. The declaration took me by surprise as I tried to figure when Peeta possibly could have arranged such a thing without me knowing. While we didn't spend all our time together, we spent the vast majority of it in each other's presence. I had the haunting suspicion he had deliberately gone out of his way to make those arrangements when I wasn't around.

My face was tight and there was an edge to my voice as I strained to tell him I was glad they were going to break ground on the bakery. Peeta told me he could use an extra set of hands, but I spit out the first excuse I could think of. I would need the time to hunt, as I had spent the vast majority of the past several weeks helping him with the first stage of the project, and I was well behind on gearing up for the winter. It was a flimsy lie and we both knew it, but he was too polite to call me on it.

I told him we would have to prepare a fancy feast the following evening in celebration of the milestone and accomplishment. He agreed, though his sentiment was as lackluster as mine. When he asked if I wanted to help with the last haul of wood into town and with the start of the process of cutting the timber to size, I politely declined with another frail excuse.

The frustration on his face was clear, and I paused to count to ten before I snapped and said anything brash I would instantly regret. As I counted, I felt his gaze bore down on me with impatient patience. Only Peeta could make such an oxymoron seem possible. "I can't," I finally admitted when I reached ten and still my sour mood did not turn. Honestly was the best policy if I ever expected to maintain whatever type of relationship existed between us. "I can't stand around and watch you rebuild the bakery. And I'm sorry for that, I really am. But I saw that look in your eyes every day when you cut wood, Peeta, and I can't help but think that rebuilding the bakery is not the best idea right now."

I didn't want to say it, and I knew I shouldn't, but the words were like a speed training as soon as the first one tumbled out, and I was powerless to stop myself. "I honestly thought for a while that I wasn't going to get you back, and that broke a part of me." There was no point in admitting that it shattered all of me, completely. "And I know how important the bakery is to you, but I can't stand there and watch it tear you slowly apart again after you worked so hard to put yourself back together. I can't do it."

I saw him deliberate as he stood before me. I could almost see the thoughts swirling through his mind. When he spoke, it wasn't at all what I had expected, "Not everything is about you, Katniss." The words struck me hard and deep. "The bakery was all I had in this world, and I lost it with my entire family. I know you lost your sister, and I know that pain hits you more than my whole family hits me, but you still have your mother. Your mother that you barely talk to, that you never visit, and that you do your best to ignore. I don't have that luxury.

"Everything I learned, I learned in that bakery. Every skill I used, every trait I had that helped save my life, I got there. Baking and painting helped me not just survive the Games, but it helped me make sense of my life again. It keeps me sane, and I need a place to do that. I thought you of all people would understand that and would want to help."

"Peeta-"

"Don't," he snapped, and it was the harshest word he'd spoken since he'd morphed back into the real Peeta. "I understand what you're saying Katniss, I do. But it's selfish and unfair and I don't want to stand here and listen to you try to explain it to me. I'm still my own person," he pointed to his chest and tapped it a few times to emphasize. "The Capitol may have taken me and tortured me and built me into a weapon, but Snow didn't steal my soul completely. And I have the right to want to fight to get it back. I have the right to try to find happiness instead of wallowing in misery day in and day out like you do."

His words cut deep because they felt true. He wasn't done. "I know you never expected to make it out of the Games alive. I know that you only ever volunteered to save Prim, and now you don't know what to do with yourself now that you survived and she didn't. I know you never had the best relationship with your mother, but that her abandonment still hurt. I know that you love Gale, but that you blame him and you hate him and that tears you up inside. You feel responsible about Finnick, and so many others, and most days you want to just give up. But I don't want to give up, Katniss. I want to learn how to live again. I want to figure out a way to put my life back together. And I'm so sick of you and Haymitch trying to convince me that I have to spend the rest of my life wounded and miserable."

I couldn't breathe, and tears flooded my eyes. Fighting the urge to keep them at bay, I started my count to ten over again. Did he really think I had given up? Had I? Even I wasn't sure sometimes. But I never thought that I'd been holding him back, or trying to keep him from living his life. All I had wanted was to protect him. I'd never stopped to think that he didn't need my protecting, and that perhaps he was the one protecting me, still, after all this time.

I didn't have the heart to fight, so I did what I did best since the end of the war. I fled, back to my house without a word. I sunk down into the couch and picked up the phone. I hesitated, started to dial my mother's number, then stopped. Hanging up, I picked up again. I got the first few numbers for District Two dialed, then put down the receiver again. On the third attempt, I dialed the only number in the Capitol I knew.

By the time Dr. Aurelius picked up, the tears were freely flowing. I don't know if he understood a word I said, but that didn't stop me from spilling everything buried in my heart.


	10. Ebb and Flow

It was a week before Peeta and I spoke again. He worked nonstop on getting the bakery up, and I busied myself with hunting. Greasy Sae must have noticed my lack of a house guest, as she returned to her previous schedule of coming over and preparing both my breakfast and my dinner. Though she commented on Peeta's lack of presence, she didn't probe. It wasn't in her nature and for that I was eternally thankful.

After talking with Dr. Aurelius, I realized I didn't have much right to be upset about the things he had said. Though they were hard to admit, Dr. Aurelius pointed out that they were true and that perhaps Haymitch and I needed to give Peeta some space. So I gave him space, and gave myself space as well. I spent from sun up to sun down in the woods to keep myself and my thoughts out of the house. The only times I broke that routine were for my scheduled conferences with the doctor.

Though I missed Peeta, I tried not to think about it. Before I could figure out what Peeta meant to me, I first needed to rediscover myself, or so the doctor claimed. I protested that I didn't want to get to know myself; I was dark and angry and unsatisfied, and that was just the surface. Aurelius countered that if I didn't want to know myself, then I certainly couldn't expect others to want to. I reasoned that I had almost always had a similar feeling about myself and that Peeta, for some inexplicable reason, had still liked me for over a decade. At that point, the poor doctor became exasperated and said that would be enough for that week.

He had a point. I knew he had a point, but I didn't want to focus on it too closely. Instead, I focused on storing up on game and tried my hand at making jam. As the week went on, I took to walking through town en route to the woods and back. On one particular evening, I stopped when I noticed the bakery's progress for the first time.

Considering how long it had taken us to chop and collect all the wood, the bakery's construction was coming along at an alarmingly quick rate. Standing across the street, the basics were built up enough for me to get a sense of the layout. From what I could recall in my memory, it wasn't exactly the same as before, though it did look like Peeta was planning on adding the house attached to the back of the bakery.

My heart sank at the thought. I knew he wanted to get the bakery back up and running, but I hadn't stopped to consider the fact that he might want to move back into it after construction as well. I had just assumed we would remain neighbors and that eventually, when both of us had respectively cooled off, he would be returning to our evening routine. This realization punched another hole in my gut and my bag of game slipped down my arm as my shoulder sagged.

"What do you think?" he asked, appearing by my side out of thin air.

"It's impressive," I told him truthfully.

"It'll do," he answered modestly.

"You know you're still welcome for dinner," I mentioned, trying to sound casual and being anything but, "anytime."

I could almost hear his sigh. "I know."

I thought about leaving it at that, but I was never one to back away from a fight even when I knew it was foolish. "I won't apologize for how I feel," I told him. "I can't help that I want to protect you, even if you don't think you need protecting. You've never thought you needed protecting, and look what happened." I trailed off for a beat, unable to name what we both knew I meant. "I couldn't protect you from that, but I wanted to try to protect you from this. And maybe I am wrong. Maybe this bakery will be great; I know you'll be great at running it. But you know I'm always going to worry about you, after all we've been through. Nothing is going to be able to change that."

His face was weary and I knew he had to be tired. The construction on the bakery was up and running by the time I made my way for the morning hunt, and the guys were still working every evening when I passed back by on my way home. "I miss you," I added as a last thought. Dr. Aurelius made multiple attempts during our last session to drive home the fact that it was okay to admit weakness and that feelings weren't always weaknesses. He told me I needed to start admitting my feelings as well, and not just to others but to myself. I had promised I would try, and this small admission to Peeta was my first miserable attempt.

"I am famished," he said, yawning as he stretched his arm across his chest. I heard his arm pop with a snap. "We've got about another thirty minutes left before we shut down for the night, but if the invitation is still open..."

"I'll have Greasy Sae keep a plate warm," I promised quickly, before he had the chance to change his mind. For the last two evenings I had been so desperate for company I had Haymitch over for dinner, but the train hadn't come in a while and Haymitch had been grouchy at best, so I craved the thought of Peeta's company instead.


	11. The Sweetest Sound

After a rocky week, things returned mostly to normal. For the most part, both of us acted as if nothing had happened. We went right back into our old routine, neither one of us mentioning the argument and harsh words about the bakery. Peeta simply showed up every evening after sunset when the sky grew too dark to continue working outside, and I began to cook the game I caught and the food I collected. Greasy Sae returned to one meal a day and then started missing days completely.

I wasn't a good cook by any means, but it gave me something to do. The doctor put a heavy emphasis on trying new things and learning new hobbies. It was all a part of taking life one day at a time and exploring who I was and what my life was now meant to be.

"What is that?" Peeta asked one evening, elbow propped up on the kitchen island while he leaned forward on his bar stool.

"Rabbit," I replied, a little confused about the question. I was fairly certain I had mentioned it previously, as soon as he had walked in the door and asked what was for dinner. But perhaps he hadn't heard my response as he shuffled into one of the several bathrooms in the house and hosed down the dirt and sweat from the day. It was comforting, how easily he made himself at home in my house.

"Not the food." The way he said it grated on my nerves, as if he thought I was foolish for not immediately understanding his question precisely.

When he didn't clarify, I turned back to the food and ignored him. Greasy Sae had given me a few crash courses in fundamentals on adding spices and complimenting the meat to the rest of the meal, but it took my entire concentration to try to remember her words of wisdom.

"Katniss," he said after a while. His voice was almost a laugh as he tried to draw my attention away from the thermometer as I checked the internal temperature of the meat.

"What?" I asked impatiently. Once I was sure the rabbit was cooked enough, I pulled it off the burner and turned my attention to the greens on the back burner. While it smelled appetizing, it looked anything but.

"You have to tell me what that is. I know I recognize it, but I can't place it and it's driving me mad."

"What what is?" This time, my reply was more of a snap. It took me three cabinets until I could remember where the plates were. As I pulled out two plates and set them on the counter, Peeta rose from his perch to assist.

"That song you're humming."

"What?" I asked again, unsure of which one of us was more likely to be losing our mind. It was a general toss up on any given day. I had my bad days and Peeta had his. We'd been fortunate enough to never have to suffer through a bad day together, but I was certain the day was inevitable.

"You've been humming the entire time you've been cooking."

Distractedly, I said, "No I haven't." As I loaded up the first plate with food, Peeta handed me the second and took the first, moving it to the table for me and grabbing silverware on his way.

"You definitely have. I can't believe you don't even realize it. Of course, you've never realized the effect you have on people, so I guess it isn't entirely that surprising. It's mesmerizing, actually, the sound. I know it's a song I've heard a hundred times, but I'd starve before I could tell you what it is."

"I think you're imagining things," I told him. In truth, it wasn't that hard to believe. My father had been the exact same way. I loved to sit outside the house and listen to him hum while he skinned the game. Mother wouldn't hear of letting us in the house until the game was either prepped to eat or ready to be seasoned to store. We had sat out there for sometimes hours at a time, and he was a continuous source of lively sounds for background music.

It was both embarrassing to know I did the same thing without realizing it and heartening to realize we shared that trait. He had had so much left to teach me when he died, but there were at least traits that we shared and things I had learnt from him.

"It's nice," Peeta said, as if sensing my embarrassment. Sometimes I wished he wasn't able to so easily read me. There were a few things I would rather have kept to myself. "It's one of the things I love about you."

The slotted spoon almost slipped from my hand as he said it. It had been such a long time since he had professed feelings to me, and even longer since he had said them and I had actually believed them. The way he said it was so casual, as if he were simply commenting on the weather. I wondered vaguely if it was even still possible, for Peeta to love me. After everything he had been through, and everything Snow had conditioned him to believe, how could be possibly still be able to harbor such feelings?

"I never had a chance," he said as he returned to the stove and took the other plate from me. I continued to hold the slotted spoon in my hand, turning to watch his retreating back as he made his way back to the table and set the plate down. "After that day in school, when I heard you sing," he continued as if he could not tell my shock and unease. "As soon as you started that first verse in that timid, unsteady voice, I knew I was always going to be yours. Though I doubted you would ever settle for the baker's son."

The spoon left my hand with a clatter as I gripped the counter instead. I thought I had gotten past the point where Peeta could open his mouth and so harmlessly throw my entire world off kilter. The words he so easily spoke were so hard for me to believe, and even harder to react to.

When I failed to sit down at the table, his glanced up from where he had taken his seat. "Did I forget to grab something?" he asked, glancing around the table and taking stock of the plates.

To cover for myself, I grabbed the remainder of a loaf of bread from the previous day out of the bread box and carried it to the table, breaking it in half as I walked to keep my hands busy and my mind focused on something other than what he had said.

Dr. Aurelius had told me to focus on putting myself back together before I focused on my relationships with others, especially Gale, Peeta, and my mother. I was certain he gave Peeta similar advice, particularly when it came to me. But as I approached the table, I saw a look in his eye that I hadn't seen in a while. A glint of hope, as if he was contemplating his own words and wondering what the future could hold for us. I had thoughts along the same lines, but mine revolved around the last time I had dropped my guard and kissed him. I certainly had not forgotten how he had withdrawn and how it had thrown him off balance. I was not eager to do it again.

When I placed half the bread onto his plate, he caught my wrist and held me there. Though the sentiment was still painfully fresh in my mind, I couldn't move as he shifted in his seat and half stood. If I were to be completely honest, I would say I even leaned down partially to meet him as his head tilted up as his hand pulled me down. It was a terrible idea, for a million different reasons, and yet neither of us made any effort to stop it. Peeta was being risky and I was being selfish, because I couldn't help but admit that I had enjoyed it before. I craved that feeling he was able to elicit within me, one I hadn't known I was capable of experiencing before that time in the cave.

It did not escape my mind that Peeta managed to shine a light even in the darkest of times. His optimism and hope and love were infectious and though it had caused me headaches in the past, I couldn't help but be grateful for it. I had no idea what the future held, but I wanted to believe it would at least be better than what we had just been through. It felt as if we had hit rock bottom, and there was nowhere left to go but up. When his lips met mine, I didn't pull away. But I did restrain myself, and I refused to deepen the kiss.

We had an endless amount of time stretched out before us, and little responsibilities to fill it. There would be plenty of time to explore and define and sculpt whatever lied ahead. In that moment, I just wanted to be selfish and foolish. I wanted to enjoy it, and not worry about what it meant. It didn't have to mean anything, I reasoned as he kissed me again, and again. Not yet, at least. In that moment, we were simply two teenagers, exploring and perhaps being a little stupid. We didn't have to be survivors of the war or victors of the Games. We were just Peeta and Katniss, two strangers that had known each other since they were five, but hadn't _known_ each other until the past few years.

Perhaps our reaping for the Games didn't have to define us or our relationship completely. Perhaps there was something else out there for Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, the star-crossed lovers from District Twelve. We could be Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, the friends from District Twelve. And maybe more.


	12. Repetition

He tried for days to apologize for the kiss, but I wouldn't hear of it. I was miffed that he thought there was anything to apologize for, but I tried to understand where he was coming from. Peeta had been a perfect gentleman, letting me set the pace of how I wanted our relationship to play out for the viewers in the Capitol. It only made sense that now he would act the same.

Still unsure precisely how I felt about it, I did my best to simply ignore it. We were caught in the moment, I reasoned, and we had both allowed ourselves to be selfish. It didn't have to mean anything more than that, at least not yet. We hadn't even been home for six months, and we had a lifetime ahead of us to figure it out.

The kiss became a distant memory, and we fell back into the repetition of the daily lives we had built for ourselves since returning back home to District Twelve. I spent my time hunting, gathering, and even occasionally fishing. Peeta worked from dawn to dusk on the bakery, which broke ground quicker than I thought possible. Greasy Sae came by when she thought we needed her, and we tried to visit Haymitch just enough to keep him from being constantly drunk but not enough that he felt the need to usher us out of his house by tossing empty bottles at us. It was a delicate balance.

My sessions with Dr. Aurelius became less of a responsibility and more of a welcome release of tension once a week. It took a while to warm up to him, but he saw past the Girl on Fire. He didn't just see Katniss Everdeen, Victor from District Twelve. He saw each and every side of me, even the bad ones. Particularly the bad ones, it often felt like. He wasn't afraid to call me out for being selfish, and he wasn't afraid to push me past my comfort zone. As he liked to put it, I had worked so hard to make conditions better for the people in the districts that I ought to live my life to the new standards I had fought so hard to achieve.

It wasn't easy, of course. I woke almost every other night to the same dreams, even though Peeta kept the bed warm with me. Though I was able to leave Gale out of my life and my thoughts and conversations, he still plagued my subconscious. And though time passed steadily quicker and quicker which each passing day, not a single one made the slightest effort to repair the gaping hole in my heart. I talked with my mother as infrequently as possible; even though I had grown closer to her during my second Games and the war, I tried to avoid her now to distance myself from that resentment that flared up every time I thought about her abandonment. Peeta and Haymitch were perhaps the only parts of my former life that didn't add on to the guilt and the pain I felt with each passing day. It was something the good doctor was making it his sole mission to fix.

Somedays, I found myself hopeful that I could be fixed. Perhaps there was a miracle cure out there that could heal a pessimistic, broken teenage girl. Maybe there was a drink that could make me sociable and care. I doubted it, but I wouldn't turn my nose up at it if we ever crossed paths. One evening, when Haymitch was on the tail end of his expectation for a delivery from the Capitol, he told me it must be exhausting. When I asked him to elaborate, though Peeta shot me a look that suggested we were better off not engaging, he told me that my constant work to stay pissed off at the world had to take its toll on me. Realizing Peeta was right, I snapped back with a comment about how easy it was for him to say, when he made no effort at all. It snowballed from there, and Peeta had to usher me home.

I got so angry at Haymitch when he worked himself into those states, far more than Peeta. But I think it was because I understood why he did it. He did it to escape from the realities of life. Like me, he found it hard to shoulder the immense weight of the guilt and sorrow for friends and family lost. Haymitch was living proof that time did not heal all scars. And it made me furious, because his ability to loose himself in the bottom of a bottle was the easiest way to forget himself. It was something I had contemplated dozens of times, but unlike Haymitch I guess I figured I deserved the pain my regrets caused. I wouldn't let the bottle take anyway my guilt.

I wanted to explain these feelings to Peeta, but every time I thought about it, I couldn't find a way to bring it up. It was easier during my therapy sessions, because I didn't care what the doctor thought of me. He was just some faceless stranger in the Capitol. But Peeta? After the fight we'd already had and the estrangement it had caused, however brief, I was too cowardly to admit the truth, afraid of what he might think of me if he knew it. For some reason, I was able to even confess this truth to the doc, even though I couldn't tell Peeta. His advice? He told me to take it one day at a time; that as I grew to understand myself, Peeta and I would grow back together.

I didn't bother correcting his assumption. I didn't dive into the lie that we had spun to try to save ourselves from Snow. I didn't say the marriage, the miscarriage, all of it was a lie. Because when he said that to me, in that exact instant, for the first time since the end of the war I felt hope. Or at least I think that's what it was. I hoped that he could be right. Even though I didn't deserve it, I hoped that maybe we would be able to figure it all out, and that someday I might even get to be happy. It was a long shot, I knew, despite the optimism in his voice, but for the first time I wanted to believe.


	13. The New Normal

My first instinct upon waking up was to roll over to check on her. The bed beside me was warm, and she wasn't shifting around, so at least I knew she hadn't crawled out of bed and joined our mother instead as she sometimes did when she had a bad dream.

As I turned, my heart skipped a beat and it felt as if someone punched me square in the gut. It wasn't Prim beside me at all. Though the hair and eye colors were close, the similarities ended there. "Good morning," he said softly, his voice still thick with sleep.

It took a moment for my mantra to come to me, and an even longer moment to repeat it to myself. Who I was, where I was, what had happened here in the past, how Peeta and I had ended up here, together. Sadness washed through me as I realized I would never be sharing my bed with Prim again. She would never curl up against me for protection through the night. She would never be there again, period.

No matter how much time passed, I wasn't sure if I would ever entirely get used to this new life, much less find a way to enjoy it. Though I didn't miss the hunger and the struggle of living in the Seam, I missed my home and my family. I even missed the sight of Buttercup plopped protectively on Prim's knees, even if he thought he was protecting her from me.

"What are you thinking?" Peeta asked, jarring me back to the present. Away from our small home in the Seam that no longer existed and back to the humongous house in the Victors' Village that we would never be able to fill.

"Trying to come back to reality," I told him, stifling a yawn. Then, because I felt I owed him the truth instead of a vague answer, I added, "Trying to come back to the present instead of waking up in the past."

He shifted in the bed, puffing the pillow up beneath his head and releasing a yawn of his own. I wondered how long he'd been awake, and what he had been doing in that time. "Prim?" he asked softly.

I nodded. Of course he would ask, because of course it was true. I was a predictable creature, and one way or another it always led back to Prim. Was it really so terrible? I would have felt guilty if it were the other way around. She was the only person I had ever, truly loved except for perhaps my father, and I had never felt responsible for taking care of my father.

"I'm sure she's watching over you, right now. Returning the favor for all the times you watched over her."

Except for the one time when it mattered. Except for the time when I wasn't there to protect her, and it got her killed. But the words don't leave my month, because it was too early in the morning for an argument and I still had hopes for a good day. I also didn't want to get into a debate about what happened after we died, if the possibility for Prim to watch over me was even possible. Instead, I plastered on a fake smile. I told him I was sure he was right. And then I asked if he could use a spare set of hands working on the bakery for the day.

It was time for me to stop being so selfish. It was time to test the waters and see if I could ever let anyone else into my heart the way Prim had always held it. In a different way, of course, but with as much force and compassion. Peeta's bakery project was not going away, and it hadn't caused even the slightest hint of a breakdown on his part. Instead, it seemed to have the opposite effect. He seemed in happier spirits, as if the purpose of the bakery helped lift the demons from his shoulders and remind him of who he truly was. It was time I tried to stop burdening him with my own.


	14. Father

"Run!" I screamed. The walls shook and vibrated; the ground buzzed beneath my feet. It felt like what I had always imagined the inside of a tracker jacker nest would be. Everything around me felt alive, and angry. Definitely angry.

"Run!" I screamed again. He was so close; he had to hear me. And yet, he felt so far away. Just out of reach. Always out of reach. I extended my arms toward him, trying in vain to bridge the gap between us. But my short arms weren't enough. They were never enough. And as I extended them toward him, the distance between us seemed to stretch, growing infinitely longer.

Just when I thought I could stretch out and touch him, just when I finally felt hope, the ground beneath me crumbled and collapsed. Fire erupted around me, engulfing everything in sight and consuming him as I dropped into darkness. The world felt bleak, hopeless, empty. I continued to scream but the thick, black dust of the coal began to fill my lungs. With every inhale of air to refill my lungs, I began to choke. My screams turned into coughing fits, and I felt through the darkness while gasping for air.

I landed on the ground with a thud. My mother and Prim stood beside me, Prim's face tucked into the security of my mother's skirts. My mother cried silently, but I tried again to scream. I could no longer see him as we waited for the elevator to reach this end of the shaft. I could still feel the heat on my skin. I already knew it was too late. But still, I reached out and called for him. Begged for him.

I awoke from the dream with a start, shooting up straight in bed and screaming the same, single syllable word. As I came to my senses, I settled back against the sweat soaked pillows. I felt the dampness of my hair at the nape of my neck. I turned automatically to Peeta for comfort, only to find the opposite side of the bed already vacated in the early morning rays.

Sinking back into the mattress, I forced myself to settle down. It had been a long while since I'd dreamt of my father. My nightmares usually featured more recent trials. Perhaps I had fallen asleep staring at the old family portrait on the nightstand again. I couldn't remember.

Even as time passed, the dream felt just as real. And I felt just as helpless to save him. To save any of them, no matter which nightmare I had.

I knew without checking the calendar, a somewhat ironic gift from Haymitch since none of us ever had anything to do on a schedule these days, that it was my weekly check in day with the doctor. I thought about trying to catch a few more minutes of sleep, but the thought quickly passed. Without Peeta's presence, I doubted I would be able to fall back asleep, and I knew the nightmares would strike again even if I did. So I resigned myself to the day, and my father remained in the back of my mind, especially as I prepared for the day's hunt.


	15. Flowers on Your Grave

The first bloom of the season came late with little fanfare and with even less warning. I left to hunt late, my nightmare of my father's death still fresh on my mind. The primroses that lined my house had opened overnight. The yellow centers burst with color amid the white. The sight took my breath away, causing me to pause in mid stride. It was a fluke that I even noticed; I had become so accustomed to their presence that I hardly noticed them anymore, and yet it would have been impossible to ignore the sight.

Then an even stranger sight greeted me. Peeta sat at the edge of my property, his legs spread out across the path. He leaned back on his arms, his face tilted up towards the warm rays of the gentle morning sun. Next to him sat a wicker basket and beside it a folded wool blanket.

"Peeta," I called out his name to register my presence. At the sound, he startled slightly in place. Twisting at the waist, he turned to face me and gave a gentle wave. "Beautiful day," he commented, as if we spent every day simply exchanging pleasantries about the weather.

"Indeed," I agreed with a soft click of my tongue. "Great weather for hunting and building," I added as I approached.

With a gesture to the basket next to him, he said, "Actually thought I'd take the day off. Thought I could entice you to a picnic in the Meadow."

Just the mention of the place brought unwelcomed thoughts and memories to mind, but I shoved them down. Peeta hadn't taken a day off from working on the bakery since he'd started the project. Thoughts warred in my mind, and I forced myself to stop for a second and breathe. He was taking a first step, extending a hand. Our fight was still fresh in my head, and I didn't want to do anything that might jeopardize starting another.

"I think, if you work hard enough, you just might be able to accomplish that feat," I granted. When I reached him, I offered him a hand up. Resilient as always, he ignored it as he stood slowly himself, his weight shifting to favor his good leg. It hurt to watch him struggle in any kind way. He had already suffered so much. If I could have given him my leg, I would have in a heartbeat. Of course, knowing Peeta, he never would have taken it.

"What do you think it will take?" he asked, dusting off his pants as he straightened.

Leaning down to pick up the basket before he could bother himself with the task, I gave it a light shake and judged the weight. "It depends. What do you have in the basket?" I countered. "And will I have to share part of it with Haymitch?"

"Nothing special," he admitted. Then, instantly sweetening the deal, he added, "Cheese buns. Cinnamon rolls. French loaf. Some of Greasy Sae's soup. Nothing special."

Letting the basket handle slide to the crook of my arm, I lowered my arm to my side. "You had me at cheese buns," I told him, though he clearly already knew it from the grin plastered across his face. "But I warn you, mentor or not, if Haymitch tries to touch a single one of my cheese buns, I will bite off his dirty little fingers."

"Haymitch isn't coming," Peeta said, almost stiffly. There was an underlying meaning beneath the words and I ought to have asked, but I knew if I did it would spoil the mood. To be honest, it felt nice to be able to joke and tease so openly and easily with Peeta; I didn't want anything to spoil it, at least not so early in the events. So I let the unspoken hang between us, left unresolved for further investigation at a later time.

"Well, I guess that just means more food for us," I replied, trying to leave the topic of Haymitch behind us.

When Peeta extended his hand out to me, I accepted it. Callouses now covered his once gentle hands, and they felt less and less like the hands of a baker's son and more and more like the hands of a working man. Was it that simple, then? To set your mind on a task, to work to get it done, and somehow transition yourself from a teenager to an adult? A sideways glance did not show Peeta morphing into someone else, but it felt as if perhaps he was growing into his future role as the town's baker. One day soon, he would take his father's place and continue his family legacy.

I wondered idly where that left me. Several instances over the past two years had taught me that I would never come close to matching my mother's skills when it came to healing and treating people. And I certainly would never develop the necessary bedside manner required. I carried more of my father's skills, with my hunting and foraging and even my singing. But they had recently closed the mine, for good or so they claimed, and even if they hadn't I never would have continued in his footsteps there.

"What's going on in your head?" Peeta asked, shaking me from my thoughts as I realized we hadn't moved an inch from where we stood at the end of the walkway.

"Nothing," I lied. "Let's go. Just the smell of the food is making my stomach grumble." Then I paused before we could even get a few steps. Silently handing him the basket, I turned back towards the house. Not stopping to ponder on the idea, I snapped two of the evening primroses from the bush closest to the front of the house before hurrying back to join Peeta once more.

I went through great lengths to avoid the Meadow as much as possible. Though bodies were no longer being carted from town and pitched into the ground, it was still abundantly clear what the purpose of the Meadow now was. It was no longer the grassy oasis on the outskirts of town. Even the removal of the electric fence around the perimeter did little to improve the sight or the mood of the space.

As we approached, I caught Peeta's hand once. Squeezing his fingers until mine hurt, I refused to let go. _She's not buried here_ , I reminded myself for what had to be the hundredth time since I returned to District Twelve. They had never been able to identify her body in the aftermath of the bombs. Part of me thought it was a blessing. Another part ached at missing the closure I thought I might achieve if they had. Neither mattered once we reached the Meadow and I took in the sight before us.

Though the ground was flat once more, it was blatantly obvious it had been disturbed. Most of the Meadow, once a grassy field, now existed as a stretch of dirt. Little tuffs of grass burst from the ground in a few places but not many. It would be a long time before the Meadow resembled anything close to what it had been before, and even then I doubted it would ever be viewed the same by the people who knew the truth of what it now was.

Peeta motioned for the basket, and I handed it over willingly. My arm ached from where it had hung, and I was having a bit of difficulty catching my breath as I took in the sight. As Peeta began to spread the blanket out on the edge of the Meadow, I slid my quiver and bow to the ground, gently setting them down. Taking a few steps towards the middle of the Meadow, I dropped to my knees, placing the primroses gently on the dirt. One for my father, one for my sister. The stems of the flowers touching, the petals overlapping, just as I hoped my sister now joined my father somewhere else. Somewhere better.

I felt for sure that tears would come next, but my body withheld. Sadness crept through me, but the pain in my chest hurt slightly less than usual. It was because I was fresh off a session with the doctor, I reasoned. I was still riding the emotional high of the therapy I didn't want but desperately needed.

As the sight of the flowers grew harder and harder to witness, I turned back to Peeta. Sinking onto the blanket next to him, I leaned forward to peek into the basket as he continued to pull out food. My gut twisted at the sight of a woven bowl of fresh strawberries. My thoughts instantly turned to Madge and her family. Unlike my father and sister, they were buried in the ground beneath us, casualties of the war. I thought of Madge and her Mockingjay pin. I wondered how much of the symbolism was planned, and how much grew from the token itself. I remembered the mayor and his love of the strawberries Gale and I picked. I remembered Gale, and my suspicion of him and Madge.

None of it mattered anymore, of course. It was all in the past, where it would forever remain. But I couldn't help but miss my friend as I plucked a strawberry from the bowl and bit through its soft skin. I hoped her death had been quick and painless. I hoped they hadn't tried to make an example out of the mayor and his family. In the panic, I doubted anyone would have even noticed.

Forcing my thoughts away, I leaned against Peeta for support. Just the feel of his strong, sturdy shoulder helped ground me in reality. I wondered where I would have ended up if he hadn't returned. Would I have ever gotten off the couch again? Would Haymitch have even tried to get me to? Regardless, I knew it would have been bad.

Peeta's hand began to run through my hair, much in the same way mine had done to his in the tunnels. It was peaceful and relaxing, and it made me feel safe though I was surrounded by death. His other hand extended a cheese bun to me, and I couldn't mask the smile of eagerness as I gratefully accepted it.

We ate in silence for the longest time, me still leaning against him, him continuing to stroke my hair. Then a sound began to float across the Meadow, gentle and light. It took a moment for me to realize it was my own voice. The words came instantly, and I sang the bittersweet tune without thought.

 _Deep in the meadow, under the willow_

 _A bed of grass, a soft green pillow_

 _Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes_

 _And when again they open, the sun will rise._

This time the tears came. In a trickle, they rolled the short distance down my cheek until they reached Peeta's shoulder and absorbed into the fabric of his shirt. His hand stopped stroking my hair, but wrapped around my shoulders and pulled me closer.

I sang the whole song, barely conscious of any of it, though I heard the song carried across the open field. Everything else remained silent as I reached the end. Only the rustle of the leaves in the trees further off could barely be heard if I strained my ears.

Peeta handed me a cookie, which I took and promptly shoved in my mouth to prevent another song from escaping. I didn't want to think about the song and the memories it brought to surface. I didn't want to think of little Rue, and how the trees reminded me of her district and how she reminded me of my sister and how the thought of them reminded me that I hadn't been able to save either of them.

"These are the same kind of cookies your father brought me after the reaping," I told Peeta, my mind already turned towards my first Games. They were sweet and melted in my mouth, though I stopped to study the beautiful patterns Peeta had added on top his with icing.

I hadn't realized Peeta's fingers had been tracing up and down my arm until they paused at the mention of his father. I inwardly cringed, berating myself for subjecting Peeta to the same terrible memories my own mind was dredging through. "Your father had the same voice as you," he mused, inexplicably bringing up my father instead of his. "I remember the first time I heard you sing." He clarified, "After that first time in school. I thought to myself, is it wrong to be so glad that your father had a voice like yours? That he was able to steal your mother away from my father, so that we could both be born and so that I could possibly, one day, have a chance of knowing that same love?"

He was talking about his own father too in a way, but not really. In fact, I honestly wasn't sure what he was talking about. I knew what he was saying, and my cheeks burned at the mention of the word love. But as to his reason behind bringing it up then, I had no idea.

He didn't elaborate more, and I didn't dare contribute my two cents. Instead, we sat side by side in silence, and for once, the silence carried by things unspoken and others left unanswered didn't weigh me down. I didn't stress about the reasoning behind his comment. I ate strawberries in the place where my friend rested eternally, and I leaned against him for support.


	16. Memories

"Nightlock, nightlock, nightlock," I whispered. The holo shuttered in my hands as if rebutting against my request. Still I soldiered on. Dropping the holo down into the darkness, I turned away. Listening to the screams, I tried to ignore them as my mind drew up a mental image behind my eyelids. I didn't have to hear his screams to know his pains. I clearly saw the trident he swung so proficiently. I could also conjure images of the half lizard, half human mutts that surged in staggering numbers. No amount of talent could have saved him then. It was already far too late.

I took no comfort as the holo exploded in a burst of flame. How fitting for the Girl on Fire. But Finnick never had ties to that claim of fame. If anything, he was the exact opposite. The boy from District Four, the pride and joy of the Capitol. Born to yield a trident and navigate waters vast and deep. But even he wasn't a match for the relentless fire from the Capitol, and even he was consumed by the flames in the end.

I didn't turn and run. I didn't follow the others. Instead, I turned back. Collapsed to my knees, hands clinging to the lip of the opening. "Finnick!" I screamed, as if somehow he could have survived. As if I hadn't just killed him. "Finnick!" I screamed again, the name tearing through my throat and ripping it apart.

He didn't respond. Of course he didn't. He was gone. No amount of remorse or regret or guilt could change that, no matter how hard I wished to exchange places with him. I would have given myself up in a minute for him. For all the times I had misunderstood and misjudged him. For all the times I had thought less of him for the evils the Capitol had cast upon him. He had a wife to get back to, a wife that needed him. I needed to protect him.

But there was nothing left. The mutts, what was left of them in pieces, swarmed whatever remained of the wreckage. Peeta caught me by the shoulders, then his arms wrapped around my waist and pulled me against him. Turned me slowly to face him, attempting to draw my attention away from the horror below but failing miserably.

"Katniss," Peeta murmured, his voice as soft as his hands. I waited for his hands to wrap around my throat again, to shove me down the hole and leave me where I landed. To join Finnick in his unnatural fate. Instead, his hands remained soft on my face, "It's just a dream. Just a dream," he repeated, over and over as the world shifted and blurred around me, his words creating confusion.

The tunnels lost their putrid smell. The screams and feral noises of the mutts turned to silence, save for the soft breeze of the wind. Fact weaved in and out with fiction, until my brain couldn't process what was real and what was fake. Is this what Peeta felt like, under Snow's captivity? It was a feeling I wouldn't wish on my darkest enemy, except perhaps Snow himself.

Then full realization slammed into me, like a bucket of frozen water dumped over my head. It was a dream, just as Peeta said. And it wasn't the Peeta that struggled for control of not only his mind but his body. It was Peeta, my Peeta, who knew who he was more often than not, and fought to remain himself every moment of every day.

"I'm fine," I managed to sputter out, though I felt anything but. It was two different nightmares, two nights in a row now, and I took no relief in awaking. The only relief I felt was as I shifted around in bed, leaning back against Peeta. It took him a while to drift back off as he waited to make sure I was indeed fine; I was getting better at faking it. As he fell back asleep, he pulled me solidly against him, my back sculpting perfectly into his chest, and I eased into him willingly.

The only thing that calmed my racing heart was the security of his touch and, eventually, his even breathing. Though sleep alluded me due to my own fear of relapsing back into nightmares, I settled into an odd sense of calm.

When I finally drifted back off in the wee hours of the morning as the first rays of light peaked over the horizon, my prediction came true. Dreams of Finnick's death were replaced by memories of my first Games. Of the Girl on Fire truly on fire as the gamemakers pushed to corral me with the rest of the tributes. And as I woke screaming in the comfort of Peeta's arms once more, I wondered if I would ever break free of the nickname I'd been gifted, and if I'd one day survive the memories of what being the Girl on Fire meant.


	17. The Book

The idea came, in large part, due to Dr. Aurelius. I had mentioned our family plant book in one of our sessions, and slowly the idea evolved to take the principal idea behind it and transfigure it into something else. Something healing, or so the doctor proposed. Skeptical though I was, I did not turn up my nose on the idea. And when the first round of supplies arrived on the next train from the Capitol, I didn't turn my nose up at them either.

After the nightmare about Finnick, I proposed adding him to the book. It had started out as just my own project, but it wasn't something I could exactly hide from Peeta since he was practically living at my house. And, to be fair, the task seemed much less daunting and painful when shared with Peeta. Also, I enjoyed simply watching him paint and sketch, offering tips here and there for features he didn't remember as well, but mostly just sitting in silence. I wasn't sure if it was therapeutic for me, but Peeta took comfort in his contributions to the project, and that was enough for me by any standards.

Finnick's addition to the book took the entire day. Peeta kneaded a batch of dough as we ate a small breakfast and I proposed the idea. As the bread rose, we took out the book and set to work. The bread was cooked and filled our stomachs by late afternoon, and still we sat and worked. There were so many things I had misunderstood about Finnick, and even other things I had completely missed that Peeta contributed. I scribbled furiously, page after page, but the details continued to pour from both of us. As I summarized Finnick's contributions to the Games and to the Second War, Peeta drew out sketch after sketch of possible additions to the book. Finnick carrying Mags. Finnick playing a round of Real or Not Real with Peeta sitting outside the tents of our camp.

At one point, Peeta glanced up from his drawing, his graphite pencil held tightly in his hand. "Finnick saved my life in the Arena," he said, "after I hit the force field. Real or not real?"

"Real," I replied. We played the game less and less now, which I was eternally thankful for. But the questions he asked hit deeper the longer time stretched out, because they were the most personal and painful details of all. "I thought at first he was kissing you," I recalled with a bittersweet smile. "I was about to shoot him dead when I realized I'd seen my mother do the same thing before to patients."

"Jealous, were you?" Peeta asked, but his voice was off just the slightest. His grip still looked painfully tight on the pencil.

"The kissing didn't bother me so much," I replied. "It was more the pounding on your chest that got me worked up."

Peeta nodded. I fought the urge to ask what parts felt shiny about that memory. If he thought I had pushed him into the force field, perhaps. In truth, I didn't want to know. I wasn't capable of handling the lies that Snow had weaved into his memories.

The memory of Finnick saving Peeta's life brought a fresh stab of pain to my heart. I owed him so much, would never stop owing him as long as I lived. My nightmare returned fresh to my mind, but I forced it away. _We cannot change the past_. I repeated the mantra Dr. Aurelius was still trying to convince me of in our sessions. _We can only change ourselves to make sure we don't repeat the same mistakes_. I glanced at Peeta, and promised myself I would never make those kinds of mistakes with him again.

Swiping my palm across my eyes, I forced myself to focus back on the task before us, and buried myself in the work.


	18. Breaking Bread

When the bakery opened, the entire district poured in. Peeta had not made a formal announcement about the opening, but somehow everyone seemed to instinctively know. With the mines shutting down and a rumor about a medicine factory on the horizon but not confirmed, there was little else to gossip about in the district as we worked to slowly rebuild our home.

Thus, the opening of the bakery was a symbol of all the good to come in the future of the district. It showed that we could rebuild, and not just our town but our lives there as well. Peeta had not set out to make any such bold statements, and yet they attached themselves effortlessly to his work.

Fortunately, the news didn't travel to the Capitol in time for the opening. So while everyone in town crowded around the still rather desolate square, waiting for a chance to enter the shop, at least there were no cameras or reporters present to document the occasion. As we collected ourselves in the kitchen, Peeta frantically running from one task to the next, me just trying to stay out of the way, I was thankful that at least the opening of the bakery was only a district celebration for the time being. From the manner in which he paced nervously through the open expanse of the kitchen, I didn't think Peeta would be able to handle much more attention.

"You can postpone the opening," I told him as I watched him recheck the doughs and batters for the tenth time.

He gave me a dry laugh, not even looking up from his task, "Have you seen everyone gathered out there?" he asked. Though his voice was calm, he was anything but.

"They'll be hungry tomorrow too." Though I knew how much the opening of the bakery meant to him, I tried to downplay its importance as much as possible. He'd tossed and turned all night as was evident from the dark bags under his eyes and my own lack of sleep.

He ignored me as he moved to a bowl on the long working counter. Taking the dishtowel off the top, he dabbed his hands in flour before tipping the bowl and pulling the dough out. He worked it almost maniacally. "Can you check the loaves in the oven?" he asked.

Sliding from my stool, I pulled on a pair of oven mitts as I crossed to the large brick oven. With our victor money, Peeta could have bought the most advanced technology Panem had to offer. Instead, he'd rebuilt the bakery almost exactly the same as it had been, with only a few minor improvements. He'd even rebuilt the attached home, though he spent all his time in the Victors' Village and I didn't foresee him moving back into town.

Opening the oven, I took a step back from the heat that smacked me in the face. It brought a few memories to mind, but I shook them away as I stepped back and waited for the heat to dissipate. Who would have thought that the Girl on Fire would feel uneasy around a simple oven? "They look brownish, but I honestly can't tell cooked from uncooked, Peeta."

"Go ahead and take them out," he said. "I'll come check in a minute."

So I did as I was told, adding them to the closest table where Peeta already had the trays lined up that would go into the display in the front of the store. I had no idea how early he'd gotten up to start preparation, but I'd woken up with the sun and his side of the bed had already turned cold.

"Try one of the loaves," he told me as I pulled the last one from the oven and shut the door.

Maneuvering around the kitchen, I finally found a knife. After selecting the smallest of the loaves, I cut a large piece from the center of the loaf. I still couldn't tell if it needed to cook longer, but it seemed fine to me.

It only took a moment to realize what type of bread he had made for the first batch. My swallow caught in my throat as I studied the appearance of the bread. When the realization hit me, I almost dropped the slice. Raisin and nut loaf. Could he have possibly remembered, after all those years? It was one thing for him to remember the moment, but the details were another thing.

"Peeta." The word was barely a whisper, yet I still managed to choke on it as I stared down at the bread in my hand.

"It is that bad?" he asked, sounding panicked. "I made it from memory, so I know the proportions are probably a little off, but I thought it would be close."

If he remembered, he didn't show it. He didn't even look up from the dough, which he was already sculpting into the next batch of loaves. I, however, couldn't let go of the memory. But I did let go of the bread. Setting it on the table, I took a step away. Wiping my hands against the legs of my pants, I moved toward Peeta.

"I'm going to go wait outside with everyone else," I told him, only making the decision as I said it. It was too much to be in this place, with this boy and that bread.

He looked up then in surprise. I knew I owed him an explanation, but the words would not come. Instead, I pulled him to me in a hug. A white cloud of flour puffed around us as the front of his apron collided with my jacket, but neither of us laughed. Wrapping my arms around his back, I selfishly held him tight as I tucked my face against the crook of his neck and inhaled.

My boy with the raisin and nut bread, who had taken a beating from his mother to toss me a few loaves. Who had rebuilt the bakery with his own two hands in honor of the family he hadn't even been too close to. He would never stop amazing me.

"You are going to do great day," I told him as I reluctantly pulled away. "You already have," I amended. "You're amazing." And he was. Nothing could hold him down forever, and nothing would break him past rebuilding. He still wasn't entirely his old self; I wasn't sure if he ever would be completely, but he had come so far and had worked tirelessly. Standing there in the kitchen, flour streaked across a cheek, hands covered in a mixture flour and dough, it was the spitting image of the boy I remembered growing up. Closing my eyes briefly, I vowed to memorize the moment.

"I'm going to go," I said again, because I had already distracted him for far too long. With a quick swipe of my thumb I brushed the flour from his cheek. "I'll be outside with everyone else when you're ready." I didn't remind him that he could postpone if he needed to, because I knew in that moment that he was ready.

I snuck out the back to draw as little attention as possible. The opening of the bakery was Peeta's accomplishment, and I didn't want to take anything away from it. He had worked so hard and deserved all the attention the bakery was sure to bring.

My eyes scanned the crowd as I rounded the side of the building. When they landed on Haymitch, I laughed aloud in surprise. He barely left his house, except when Peeta or I dragged him out to join us for a meal. And he never left the Victors' Village except to meet the train at the station for his delivery of poison from the Capitol.

A biting remark was on the tip of my tongue. Something along the lines of, 'I didn't know those rusted old joints of yours could even move anymore'. But the sight of him there, surrounded by others he hated to mingle with, was enough to shut me up.

As I reached his side, I wrapped my arms around him and buried my face against his side. His stale smell of booze and grime stood in stark contrast to Peeta's sweet aroma, but for the moment I didn't care. It was difficult to say which one of us was more surprised by the impromptu hug, though his arm did come around me and gave my shoulders a gentle squeeze as if he understood.

When I pulled away, I made no attempt to explain myself. I doubted I could have even if I had wanted to. The emotions coursing through me were suffocating. "Do you think we finally did it?" I asked, shoving my hands into my pockets to prevent anymore displays of affection.

"Did what?" Haymitch asked gruffly. You could tell it was earlier than he was used to being up, yet he had a surprising air to him. Almost as if he was sober for once. Almost, apart from the stench.

"Saved Peeta." I remembered the promise we had made, after I got wasted in an empty house in the village. When I hadn't known the reasons behind my own desires.

Haymitch's smile was crinkled, but it still appeared across his aged face. From the looks of him, I could have sworn he'd actually bathed before leaving the house though he certainly didn't smell like it. I, apparently, was not the only one proud of Peeta and trying to show it. "I guess we'll see," was all he said. It was enough.

We waited in line with everyone else as Peeta unlocked the front door and ushered the first wave of excited people in. It became an all-day event as food disappeared out of the displays as quickly as he set it out. The chatter among the waiting was excited and hopeful, and it was the happiest I'd seen people since our return to Twelve.

Haymitch and I shied away from engaging in conversations. We stood in peaceful silence next to each other as conversations swirled around us. A few people came up to exchange pleasantries - Greasy Sae, Hazelle - but for the most part we were simply left alone. Both of us preferred it that way.

As the crowd slowly thinned, Haymitch made no move to enter the bakery. I followed his lead. The last of the waiting crowd filed in and dispersed. Still we waited outside. On a glance over at Haymitch, I could have sworn I saw tears in the corner of his eye, but he never let them slip. I followed his lead there as well.

Once the town square became vacant Peeta exited the bakery, a load of bread in either hand. As he reached us, he extended one to each of us. Haymitch took one sniff of his before accepting it. With his free hand, he clasped Peeta on the shoulder, "I've had better at the Capitol," he said in a flat tone, "but it'll do, Kid." Squeezing Peeta's shoulder, he tilted his head in acknowledgement and then headed back home without another word.

As I took Peeta's offering, I realized it wasn't a loaf of bread after all, but a cheese bun. Seeing the look of delight on my face, he laughed. "Those are not available to the public yet," he said in a mock whisper, "so don't go spreading the word about it."

He moved to stand beside me, facing the bakery. His bakery. Resting my head against his shoulder, I thanked him. "For everything," I added, not even sure he would know what everything entailed but needing to say it regardless.

"Always," he told me with a smile, wrapping his arm around my waist. We stood in silence, staring down his remarkable accomplishment, until a few late visitors approached to enter the store.

He looked apologetic as he pulled away. "Don't worry about me," I told him. "I've got nothing else on the agenda for today. I'll wait until you close up." With a smile, I added, "Just remember to bring me out another cheese bun for sustenance if it starts to get late."

"Of course," he agreed smartly. He leaned in to kiss my cheek, but I turned my head at the last moment. It was a sloppy kiss with noses bumping against each other as his lips pressed to the corner of my mouth. And it was quick as he pulled away and darted back toward the bakery for his waiting customers. He didn't have a chance to ask, and I didn't have to explain.

With a smile, I tore off a piece of cheese bun and plopped it into my mouth.


	19. Tribute (Summer)

The seasons changed quickly and without warning. The heat became a sudden presence overnight as summer arrived, and it was determined to stay for the remainder of its time. While I found myself less and less inclined to sweat it out in the forest hunting, the heat did not seem to deter Peeta for spending the entire day slaving away near the ovens in the bakery.

The recent string of kisses and our pointed decision to avoid speaking about them entirely left me a little unsure of where we stood. When he could tell my hunting and gathering season was coming to a close, he invited me to join him at the bakery anytime I wished. He even promised to teach me to bake, though I swore I'd be the worst pupil he'd ever laid eyes on. On days when I could truly find nothing else to occupy my time, I took him up on his offer to pass the day in the bakery, though I ever so graciously declined his proffered lessons.

The remainder of the time I spent mostly idle. I found myself visiting Haymitch more and more, and would almost venture to guess that I saw a subtle change in his demeanor. Without a doubt, he still relied far too heavily on the alcohol. But there were days were he was almost completely sober, and it was a marked improvement over what we'd seen since we'd known him. Sometimes, during my visits, he didn't stray to the bottle once. Others, he would let his glass sit empty after he drained it, though I was sure the bottle called for him to get a refill.

It wasn't much, but it was a start. And it was progress, to be sure. I doubted he would ever completely sober up, but I wondered if he would try to at least join us as a living, breathing member of society again before he grew too old to leave his house. I think Hazelle had a rather calming effect on him, apart from the arguing and screaming that arose every time she wanted to clean the house. To be fair, she held her own against him as only a women who had bared and raised a handful of children could. When they weren't going at each other's throats, Hazelle's company seemed like the smallest fraction of therapy Haymitch could handle.

"So did you hear?" he asked as I sat on the recently cleaned armchair in his living room and worked knots in and out of a piece of rope I'd found lying around the house. It was a habit I had never entirely dropped after Finnick taught it to me in Thirteen. It was something that made me think of him, and it set me on the odd tip of balance between peace from the pain and bringing fresh pain from the memories it elicited.

"Haven't you heard? I have a Capitol ear. I hear everything," I joked, though my heart wasn't in it. Now that Panem was on the road to recovery and democracy, the totalitarian control of the newsfeeds had been lifted. Not only did we get Capitol news, but feeds poured in from every district now. A flood of information and gossip always threatened to drown you if you weren't careful with how you allocated your time.

"Right," Haymitch grumbled. His eyes swayed around the room, constantly returning to his empty glass on the table. But he remained seated in his armchair across from me. I counted the minutes off in my head since he'd had his last sip of drink. Twenty-four, so far. A personal record. "I forgot you're a mutt."

My hands stilled on the rope as my entire body stiffened at the word.

"Too soon," Haymitch realized immediately from my reaction. It was as close to an apology as I would receive from him, but it was too late. The words had struck their cord. The word had left Haymitch's mouth, but I'd heard it in Peeta's voice. What had he called me? A Capitol mutt? And I had called him something similar myself. It was a dirty word, one I didn't want to hear again in my lifetime if I could avoid it.

"Paylor is holding the first annual memorial for all the lost tributes on the anniversary of the Hunger Games. All the living tributes, the few of us who remain, are invited to the Capitol as guests of honor for the event."

"Pass," I said flatly as soon as he got the last word out. My fingers rubbed over the rough material of the rope.

"Have you sent back your formal invitation informing the President of that?" Haymitch asked, a bemused look in his eyes.

"Must have gotten lost in the mail," I returned.

"I'm sure Peeta could reply for you on his. The two of you being married at all."

Though I was impressed with Haymitch's growing self-restraint when it came to drinking, I was not at all impressed with the resulting attitude it brought out in him. The confined quarters of his living room were only big enough for one faulty personality, and I had cornered the market on that a long time before him. "I did receive something actually newsworthy in the mail recently," I said. Though it pained me to even think about it, a change of topic was desperately needed.

"Are they erecting a statue of you in town square?"

"Annie had her baby." My fingers gripped the rope so tightly they ached, but I couldn't bare letting go. In that moment the rope felt like the only thing tethering me to reality, keeping me from shattering into pieces from the guilt that pressed in upon me from all sides.

"A baby boy," he said with a knowing nod. His own eyes seemed clouded with misery, though I wondered why. Haymitch hadn't been the one to tear Finnick away from his new bride. Haymitch hadn't been the one to put him out on the battlefield. Haymitch hadn't been the one who had lost track of him and gotten him killed in the sewers.

A baby boy without a father. A baby with a mother whose mental stability was never a sure thing, especially after the loss of her husband. I could easily sympathize with him, and how his life would likely turn out. My fingers busied themselves with more knots.

"I'm sure Annie's invitation got lost in the mail as well," I mumbled. I'd barely gotten to know her, and she'd returned to District Four after the end of the war. On occasion, we would swap letters, but I hardly felt like I had her figured out. I certainly couldn't guess if her stability had gotten better or worse since Finnick's death and now the birth of their child.

My brain swept me away into hypotheticals. What if Peeta and I had gotten married, as he'd said in his interview for the Seventy-Fifth Games? What if I had been pregnant? What if I had survived the Arena, but Peeta hadn't? Would I have been able to carry on? Would I have been able to look at my child, see Peeta reflected back at me, and survive? I didn't know. But I knew it would have ripped out a piece of my heart to say the very least. And Peeta and I didn't have the kind of love that Finnick and Annie had. To love someone on that kind of level, and to lose them after just getting them back?

"Katniss." Haymitch's voice brought me back to reality.

I stopped the rocking I hadn't realized I'd started. Untangling my now bleeding fingers from the rope, I spit into the palm of my good hand and massaged it into the open gashes in the other.

"Maybe you should go see her," he suggested as he leaned forward and plucked a piece of ice from his glass. It rolled around in my slick palm as I caught it from his toss. Wincing from the cold as it touched the open wound, I shrugged.

"I don't know if she'd want to see me."

"Probably not," Haymitch agreed. "But she liked Peeta. When he wasn't, you know..." Haymitch trailed off, because we'd already shared enough trips down memory lane for one evening. "You could have your own mini reunion of tributes."

"And what will do you, while Peeta and I are visiting Annie in Four? Are you going to let Effie sweep you away to the Capitol, dress you up in prissy clothes, and parade you around for people to pity?"

Haymitch's face darkened and clouded in a single look, but I couldn't place it exactly. I also didn't know which part of what I had said had triggered the shift. "No, of course not," I replied for him. "You'll sit here and drink yourself under the couch and let your geese die instead."

I didn't know why I lashed out. He'd gotten in a few cheap shots of his own on me, but nothing as cruel as what had just escaped my mouth. And I felt miserable that I took a small, sick pleasure in getting the better of him. I couldn't figure out how we somehow always ended up opposed to each other when we were on the same side of the fight. It was apparently a staple of our dysfunctional relationship and thus engrained into our every conscious interaction.

"Don't you have somewhere better to be?" was his only response. I knew then for sure that I'd gone too far.

"I suppose I do," I said as I stood. Dropping the ice back into his glass as a deterrent to filling it back up, I left. I headed straight to the bakery and asked Peeta before I could change my mind. He surprised me when he whole heartedly agreed. I hadn't realized until it was apparently decided that I had hoped he wouldn't want to go, and that his decision would save us from either option looming ahead.


	20. Train Gossip

The train took us to District Four through the Capitol, which was the main reason we got away with being able to use the train. Though the government was slowly working on opening up travel between the districts, it was still early in the developmental period and space aboard was limited. The powers that be were half convinced they would be able to change our plans between the time we left Twelve and when we stopped at the Capitol.

Neither one of us budged in our resolve. The Capitol was still fresh on Peeta's mind. Though he didn't speak a word of it when the train slowed and we neared the city, I could tell it weighed heavily on him. His breathing wasn't quite even, and his hand sought out mine in a firm grasp as the train entered the station. Squeezing his hand back in support, I off-handily suggested we get up and stretch our legs while the train was stopped. We had a bit of time, as it would refuel before it departed.

We wondered through the halls of the train until we reached the back. It was by far my favorite location, and it had emptied of the delegates and dignitaries that had been en route to the Capitol. The train was bound to be less crowded heading out of the Capitol, so I suggested we stay once we reached it. Only once Peeta had sunk into the padded seats lining the perimeter of the train car did I realize the error in my judgment. The rounded, large windows afforded us a larger than life view of the station. And though the windows were tinted while we were docked, we could still make out the hustle and bustle of people entering and leaving.

"Distract me," I told him, though he was the one I was trying to distract.

"How?" he asked. Though he tried to hide it, I watched his eyes dart around as he studied the people outside the window.

"Anyway. With anything."

"The other night. In the bakery..."

It was my fault entirely, for leaving the topic of discussion so open ended. Clearing a sudden tickle from my throat, I tried to compose a facade of calm and ease, "Yes?"

"Why?"

It was the stupidest response, but it was all I could think of because it was the truth, "I wanted to."

He chuckled softly, leaning further back into his seat and propping one ankle up on the other knee. "Well, of course."

"I probably shouldn't do it again," I confessed. It was a thought I had all the time. In fact, if I were to be honest with myself, it was the only thing that kept me from doing it more often. That fear of him having another episode at my expense was engrained in my brain. Though he hardly had them anymore, they hadn't disappeared entirely. And I didn't want to be the source of pain for Peeta ever again.

But sometimes I was selfish. More often than I had the right to be. The other evening, while Haymitch tended to his flock and thus forced me to intrude upon the bakery for company, something had flipped a switch in my brain. Peeta hadn't even been talking to me, or even paying attention to me. His entire focus had been centered on the task at hand. I think that's what drew me to him so completely, that focus of his. It had been like watching a master perfect his art, and I had been floored.

"Probably not," he agreed, though he didn't sound convincing. He was eyeing me with just a hint of a sly smile.

I saw that same confidence in him on the train as I had the other night in the bakery. While his confidence in the bakery stemmed from his ability as a baker, his confidence on the train seemed to come from the fact that he assumed he'd finally won me over. Perhaps he had. I still wasn't completely sure of what my jumbled feelings meant in the light of day.

"You're doing it again," I told him softly. I knew no one else was present in the car, and yet I had to fight the urge to check once more.

"Doing what?" he asked, and there was definitely a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

"Looking at me like that."

"Like what, Katniss?"

Like he wanted me to be selfish. Like he wanted to indulge in our feelings as much as I did, damn the consequences. And I knew I had to be the rational one, because Peeta had always ruled with emotion over reason. But when he looked at me like that, I had a hard time finding ration myself.

"Like what, Katniss?" he probed again when I didn't respond, and I knew he was teasing me now. Forever mocking my naivety, even though it was probably one of the only favorable traits I possessed.

"Like the way I want to look at you." Somehow, I managed to get the words out without making myself sick. My stomach twisted in knots at the confession, but it seemed ridiculous to be self-conscious with my feelings. Peeta had been adamant about his, almost straight from the beginning two years ago. I was the one still toeing the line, unsure. Between friends or something more, I couldn't decide.

He leaned in slowly, giving me the opportunity to pull away if I wanted. And I should have, but I didn't want to. If our roles had been reversed, Peeta wouldn't have hesitated for a moment. He wouldn't have given into his own feelings at the potential cost of hurting me. He never would have done anything to hurt me, even if I were a willing participant.

But Peeta had always been the better person, and I had always been selfish when it came to myself or to Prim. And I welcomed the opportunity to test my own feelings. Plus, I loved the way his lips pressed against mine, and the way his fingers explored when we afforded ourselves this indulgence.

Instead of pulling away, I leaned into him. He pressed further, and our bodies slid against the seats as I shifted and laid down on my back, pulling Peeta with me. His leg slid in the space between mine, the other dangling off the edge of the seat. And those fingers, so expertly trained in the kitchen of his bakery, seemed to float across the fabric of my shirt.

I had never been afforded this luxury before the War. Abandoned time to spend as wantonly as I wanted, with no worries about starving or dying plaguing the back of my mind. The only thought that clouded the moment was Peeta, always Peeta, but he showed no signs of cracks as he pressed down upon me.

Though we spent every night together in the dark, collected together beneath the sheets, we had never explored this type of interaction horizontally before. I had never dared to cross the boundary between friendship and more in the bedroom, afraid of what it could lead to. And on that train, in that moment, I was glad we never had. From the way my body reacted to his, I knew instantly it would have led down a path I was not prepared for.

"Eh-hem." The possibility of where the path before led next was interrupted by the strangest of sounds. The speed with which Peeta untangled himself from me and straightened back up on the seat was a marvel. My body reacted slower under the haze of sensations I was feeling. Then my eyes focused on what had produced the sound, and embarrassment slammed into me fully.

"Effie," I said. Her hair was a shade of lime green I'd never seen before and it looked hideous, but almost in a good way. It was a style only Effie could pull off. She looked better. So much better than the last time I had seen her. Her cheekbones were now properly hidden beneath a filled out face, and not a single bruise could be seen on his delicate, perfect skin.

"You should be more careful in public," Effie scolded, though she was beaming. "No telling the rumors that would have spread if someone else had walked in to find you that way."

"We aren't strangers to rumors about our behavior on the train," I said, which only furthered my own embarrassment.

Peeta leaned in closer and before he could ask I answered, "Real." Because I knew the next logical question, which was why I'd made the statement in the first place. I wanted to ground him in the here and now as much as possible, leaving no chance for breaking.

"Well," Effie said, clearly not prepared for that particular response. I couldn't help a small smile. She had such a unique way of taking almost anything and everything personally, and yet I loved her for it. Even as she was preparing us for the slaughter - twice - she had been kind to us, always. "I have been sent at the Capitol's request to once again ask for your attendance at the memorial celebration for the tributes." Her words were curt and brisk in her high pitched voice, and it was such a relief to see her back to her old self, professional and on a schedule. I still didn't know what exactly, if anything, had happened to her in the Capitol after our escape from the arena, but I was comforted by the fact that she was seemingly back to normal without much damage done.

"We would," Peeta said, though I certainly would never, "but we already called Annie and arranged the visit. I'd hate to cancel and leave her all alone. We victors have to stick together." Leave it to Peeta to play the victors card. He was taking the Capitol's cause, turning it on its head, and using it as an excuse back against them. Sometimes, it still felt like we were playing a game.

"Annie. Of course," Effie said. Her eyes blinked rapidly a few times in succession under her bright green eyeshadow. "This will, of course, be a difficult time for her. Of course you should go." She plastered a wide, fake smile on her face as she conceded to Peeta's argument.

"It is so good to see you, Effie," Peeta said sincerely. I nodded in agreement. I wanted to leap from the seat, cross the train car, and hug her. Wanted to wrap my arms around her to make sure she was really there, and not just a figment of my imagination. Instead I said, "You should come visit us in Twelve, Effie. You're always welcome to stay with us, even if it's only for a dinner."

"Yes," she mused, "I must. At some point," she added. "They are keeping me so busy in the Capitol these days. Though of course my old position of escort for the Games has been dissolved, I'm an ambassador to the Capitol now. It's far more prestigious, though it does grow a bit tiresome sometimes."

"I'll trade with you," I told her. "Sometimes I lose my mind just trying to think of something to do to occupy my time. We aren't all skillful bakers."

"I saw that on the newsfeeds!" Effie exclaimed as she clasped her hands together. "I most certainly do have to come and try something from your bakery, Peeta. It all looks so wonderfully delicious."

"It'll be on the house," Peeta promised.

"Well I must be off," Effie clapped her hands before returning them to her sides. "But I'm sure we'll get the two of your lovebirds to a Capitol event soon enough!" She departed with a flair as my face burned at the word 'lovebirds'.

"You don't think she'll tell anyone about how she found us, do you?" I asked.

"Oh, it'll be all over the feeds by suppertime," Peeta assured me, leaning back into the seat and tilting his head toward the roof. "But hopefully by then we'll be in Four, and I doubt Annie will have any feeds running there."


	21. Baby Odair

District Four was both everything I'd come to expect and entirely different than anything I could have imagined. The center part of the district was familiar from our Victory Tour, but Annie chose not to live in the Victor's Village. She was on the outskirts of the district, along the coastline, something I never in my wildest dreams could have pictured.

The sun was threatening to set as we arrived at the local train stop in Annie's coastal village. Peeta, with his masterful artistic skills, had drawn a map to her house from the directions she'd relayed to us. It looked like a convoluted mess, but upon disembarking the train we both immediately understood what she'd been trying to say. We both stopped to take the view in, speechless.

I'd seen the lake outside our district, and we'd seen the water in the Arena, but what stood before us was an entirely different beast. The watery blue stretched out indefinitely, and just the sight of it stole my breath. When I could manage to breath, even the air had a different quality to it. It tasted of salt, and was heavier to take in and push out of my lungs. "At least we don't have to take a boat," Peeta said, trying to make light of the enormity before him.

It might have been quicker if we had. The walk along the coastline wore me out as we passed both large houses built on stilts jetting over drop-offs and small little shacks with docks built right over the water. The elevation change along our short walk was unbelievable. When we finally arrived at Annie's modest lodgings, I was glad to see her house sat directly on the beach. I didn't think I'd be able to sleep suspended out over a cliff.

"Katniss," she said with a nod as she opened the door after a few short knocks. "Peeta," she added with another nod. Hesitating at first, she stepped back into the house and pulled the door open to usher us in. Even the inside of the house smelled like the ocean. As we stepped into the living room, I understood why. Glass doors lined the far wall of the room, and they were all opened to the water outside. A cool breeze filtered through the house.

"It's easier," she explained with a half attempted motion towards the doors. "Less... suffocating."

Peeta nodded, as if he understood exactly what she meant. Considering the fact that he couldn't go to sleep unless the bedroom window was open, he probably did.

"Sit," Annie said, gesturing to the dark green couches. I'll, ah, I will, um, I'll get something to eat." She tugged at the end of her frizzy red hair as she spoke. Then she disappeared through a doorway into the kitchen.

Peeta lowered himself onto the closest couch, and I positioned myself directly next to him. "I feel like we've already worn out our welcome," I muttered softly as I leaned into his side.

"She's probably just not used to having company," Peeta wrote off her nervousness. "That's better than how Haymitch always acts when we show up."

He had a point there. Still, I felt terrible for putting her out of sorts. She had enough to deal with, and I felt like our presence was going to make it worse, not better. I reached out for Peeta's hand for support, then quickly changed my mind and stuffed my hands into my lap. I didn't want to shove this relationship, no matter what kind it happened to be, in her face after she'd lost Finnick.

"Relax," Peeta whispered to me, bumping my shoulder with his, completely at ease.

"Do you need any help, Annie?" Peeta called into the other room.

"No, no," Annie assured us as she poked her head back through the doorway, "I've almost got it. It's nothing fancy, but it's fresh."

"We aren't fancy people," Peeta retorted as she disappeared back into the kitchen.

She returned a moment later with some bread and smoked fish, all resting on one large platter. Setting it down on the table between the couches, she settled in the seat across from us. "It's good to see you," she said uncertainly. "With Mags gone, and... and Finnick... well, I don't get much company. It can get a little lonely out here." Her hands caught her elbows as she held her arms against her chest.

"How's Sam?" Peeta asked as he broke off a piece of bread. "I bet he's more than enough company some days."

Annie nodded, a little life flaring into her eyes. "Oh yes." For once, it was like she was actually talking to us, and not simply through us. "A bundle of energy, just like his father." For the first time in all our correspondence since Finnick's death, it seemed like Annie thought about Finnick without that heart wrenching despair. Was that the benefit of having children? Were you able to look at them and see the love of your life reflected in their features and not fall to pieces? I was curious, but I would never ask.

The topic of Sam ran us through the remainder of the evening, especially when he woke from his nap and began to wail for attention. When Annie brought Sam out, Peeta almost turned into a completely different person. His face lit up as he cradled Sam into the curve of his arm and ever so lightly rocked the newborn. Annie seemed happy to have someone else to dote on him for a moment. Though I was having a hard time staying awake, she looked downright exhausted. As she tried to keep a steady stream of conversation going, her eyes would sometimes start to droop shut on their own accord.

Peeta offered to pass Sam over to me, but I declined as politely as possible. Just being in the same room as Finnick's baby was almost unbearable. The whole evening was a wave of bittersweet emotions that rolled over and through me. Unlike Annie, I couldn't separate the little bundle of joy from his father. I looked at Sam and though he hardly had a speck of hair on his head, all I could envision was Finnick and how Sam would grow up without ever meeting his father and how Finnick died without knowing he was going to be a father.

When Peeta sensed the moods in the two of us, he kindly suggested retiring for the evening. Annie took him up on the offer and stood to take Sam from his arms. Even just holding him, her eyes lit up. Her face appeared gentler, her look less glazed over and lost.

She set us up in separate bedrooms, but as soon as she disappeared into her own room and turned off the lights, I tiptoed across the hallway to Peeta's room. The door gave a faint creaking as I snuck in. The only light in the room came from the moon casting its glow through the open window. The curtains billowed softly in the breeze as I slid into the bed next to him without a word.

His arm was waiting to envelope my shoulders as I settled in next to him. As I sagged into him, exhausted from the day and weary of what the next would hold, he threw another surprise my way, "You should go see Gale."

I thought at first I must have misheard. Turning my head to face him, my chin resting against his chest, I squinted at him through the shadows spilling across the room. "What?"

Instead of looking at me, he rested his head back against the elegantly crafted headboard, angled towards the ceiling. "Some things we can't change," he said, and I knew without a doubt Finnick was also weighing heavily on his mind, "but some things are still within our power." Then his eyes casted down to me, and I wished I could be the one to look away. "I know you think you'll never be able to forgive Gale. And maybe you're right. But don't you think you ought to at least try?"

I didn't want to talk about Gale with Peeta. It was the one topic that had been off limits between us since his return. It was simply The Gale Thing, and it was too difficult to even contemplate, let alone discuss with Peeta. "I don't know if he deserves that," I answered truthfully, knowing the topic wouldn't go away until I answered his question left hanging in the silence of the night.

Resting my cheek against his chest, I let out a heavy, loaded sigh.

"He doesn't," Peeta agreed gently, his hand coming up to rest against my back, "but you do. I think it would be good for you."

The way his sentence ended so abruptly on the word 'you', I could tell he wanted to say 'your therapy'. I didn't need Peeta monitoring my progress in my sessions. I didn't need him thinking he needed to try to fix me. I wasn't even sure if I could be fixed, if the pieces that made up my fractured life would ever fit back together. Grudgingly, I realized that might have been the point Peeta was trying to make.

"I'll think about it," I finally promised, though I knew I wasn't ready and doubted I ever would be.


	22. Passing Trains

The rest of the visit passed by in a blur. Though Annie had her moments in which she didn't seem altogether present, I was envious of how well she was dealing with the tragedy in her life. Sam was certainly the cause to this effect, and I was glad that when we departed, we would not be leaving her alone. As I suspected, none of us mentioned the tribute to the tributes that was occurring in the Capitol. Though the government was changing, slowly but hopefully for the better, I still couldn't help but feel like we were a piece in their political puzzle. We'd given up enough of our lives before and during the War, and we were much happier spending the day in Annie's home by the ocean than as a political statement of reform in the Capitol.

When it came time to depart, I discovered I didn't want to leave. Though District Four summoned painful memories to mind the same as District Twelve, it was nice to get away from my life for a few days. At Annie's home, it was perfectly acceptable to sit around all day without an objective. It was freeing and stress free, and I was sad to see it go. I even gave Sam a small kiss on his forehead as we left, squeezing my eyes shut to force away the images that battled for attention in my mind.

The train back home was not the express that had taken us to the Capitol or out to Four. This train stopped at each district it passed through, and it did not escape my mind which district lied between Four and the Capitol. I vaguely wondered if Peeta had been thinking ahead, realizing the moment would come when the train would stop in District Two on the way back home.

As the train slowed into the station, my heart began to pound in my chest. I wasn't even consciously entertaining the idea, but my body seemed to know what my head was thinking before I did. The thought never crossed my mind from when we boarded the train in Four to landing in Two, but as the train pulled to a stop, it was as if my mind had been made up. As a few of the other passengers stood to leave, I rose as well.

"I think you were right," I said, though it felt more like the words were spilling from my mouth without control. "I'm going to go see Gale." And with that, my mind was apparently made up. Just the thought of what I was saying made me want to vomit, but at the same time I knew it was something I needed to do eventually. And if I didn't get off that train then, I'd never have the resolve to do it.

"Okay." It was difficult to discern who was more shocked by my sudden proclamation, myself or Peeta. Though he had been the one to plant the idea in my head, neither one of us had expected me to leap on it so quickly. Emotions jumbled in a complex mess across his face. There was relief, but also an edge I couldn't quite put my finger on. Jealously? Fear? "Do you want me to stay with you?" he added as soon as his brain caught up to mine.

"Yes," I admitted, "but you shouldn't." I couldn't help but laugh. "I don't think you being there is going to help anything." Feeling as if I needed to defend myself, I added, "You know how Gale is." Gale, not me. As if I would have been okay standing there, between the two of them again. But perhaps that's why I needed to do this excursion, and why it needed to be now instead of later. Seeing Gale, talking to Gale, could help me sort out my own mess of feelings. Not just for him, but for Peeta too. And it certainly felt like I needed to do that, especially after our horizontal entanglement on the last train ride.

"Right," Peeta said, though the way he said it didn't really sound like an agreement at all. "Let me at least carry your bag to the platform," he offered and I nodded.

As we stepped off the train, Peeta told the attendant he would be right back. Part of me wanted to distract Peeta long enough for the train to leave without him and force to stay, at least for a little while. As we stood there awkwardly on the platform, the hustle and bustle of hurrying people all around us, I became unsure of my ludicrous plan. Since his return to Twelve, we hadn't spent a single day without seeing each other. Even in the middle of our bickering when we tried to avoid each other, we still caught sight of one another in passing. Twelve was such a small district it was impossible to avoid someone.

Now, he would be boarding the train and heading home and I would be staying behind. I didn't even know where Gale was, or if he would be receptive to seeing me. My stomach continued to turn with unease as I drew in a breath and tried to steel myself. A moment later, I was pulling Peeta to me in a tight embrace. My hands clung to the back of his shirt as I drew in his familiar smell. It wouldn't be a long trip, I told myself. Peeta would be fine for a day or two by himself. He hadn't had an episode in a while, and the bakery seemed to be helping instead of hindering his progress.

But in that selfish moment, I wasn't just worried about Peeta. I was concerned with my own affairs. If I would be able to handle seeing Gale alone. What this impromptu visit might mean to Peeta and me. All of it, suddenly thrown out into the wind to see what landed and what drifted away.

Peeta rested his forehead against mine as he pulled away just a fraction of an inch. His breath mixed with mine as we breathed in unison, neither one wanting to be the first to let go. He wanted to say something, that much was obvious, but he held it in. In moments like that one, I knew Haymitch had been right. I didn't deserve him. I would never deserve him.

"It'll only be for a few days, at most," I held him, still hesitant to depart and let him go. "You won't even have time to notice I'm not there."

"Oh, Katniss," he said with a soft sigh as he pulled away. What followed I would never know.

"Your idea," I reminded him as I held on tightly, wanting him to change my mind for me.

But Peeta wasn't selfish like me. So all that followed was, "Tell Gale I said hi."


	23. Gale

"Hi."

There I was, standing on his front step and there he was, shocked and at a loss for words as he held the door ajar.

Neither one of us moved at first. Just seeing him made my heart do funny things. A violent combination of mixed sentiments flooded through me. But in that moment all I could think was that he looked like Gale. He looked the exact same as the Gale I'd grown up with hunting in the woods. He didn't look like a murder of children. He didn't look like someone who could forsake the lives of children. He looked like my Gale, who protected my family while I fought for my life.

"Catnip," he said finally, though the word sounded harsh and forced.

It should have been a comfort to hear that familiar nickname only he used. Instead it shattered the illusion that somehow we could just pick up from where we left off before the war.

"Well, don't just stand there," he said as he stepped back, though his words sounded less than pleased at the prospect.

"How about a walk?" I suggested instead, feeling less than comfortable with the idea of entering his home yet.

With a nod, Gale stepped out and pulled the door shut behind him. With a sweeping gesture of his arm, he waited for me to lead the way though I hadn't the slightest idea where to go. It had taken all of my effort just to find where he lived. I wandered aimlessly and he fell into step beside me while making no effort to set a lead or direction. I did my best to avoid traveling anywhere that might be familiar from my previous visits to the district.

Ever so slowly, we began to talk. Short, clipped sentences at first. General questions of politeness were followed by expanded sentences as some of the unease brushed off us. We caught up on all aspects of our lives. Gale asked about Peeta. I passed along his message of greeting, then admitted seriously that he was doing much better. I didn't share any of the fears or worries I associated with the topic, which glaringly pointed out that we could talk all we wanted, but we weren't back to the way things had been.

Gale's follow up question was further proof. "So you and Peeta now," he said without much lead in, "that's happening? For real?" He didn't suffer the same anxiety I had. Instead of glancing away, he looked right at me as he asked, though I could tell it mattered to him what my response was. He wasn't just asking to be polite. He wanted to know. I could tell that some part of him still clung to the idea that somehow he and I might get the chance that we never made happen before.

But I was painfully aware of how we'd spent close to an hour talking and we hadn't once brought up Prim. And I knew that we could walk until the sun set and the moon took its place, but neither one of us would have brought up Prim still. There were some things that weren't going to be the same, no matter how hard we tried or how easy it felt walking with him. "I'm not sure," I answered his question. I didn't want to open up the possibility of something for the two of us, but I wasn't going to lie either. I'd lied enough about Peeta and myself for one lifetime. "We just take it one day at a time."

We circled back to his house in relative silence, topics of conversation seemingly exhausted. "Why are you here?" he asked the most important question as we took the dirt road towards his house looming in the distance.

"Peeta told me too," I replied with complete honesty. As Gale scoffed, I added, "My mother mentioned it last time we spoke as well. She also said to say hello should I find myself in the vicinity."

"Right." It was his only reply, and we lapsed back into an uncomfortable silence as Gale led me into the house towards the kitchen.

Motioning to one of the wooden stools as he passed, he moved to the cabinets. As I perched on the edge of the stool, I surveyed the room. It reminded me a lot of his home back in Twelve. Though it didn't have any of Hazelle's female touches and there were no clothes or linens strewn about waiting to be laundered, it felt much the same. A familiar pang hit me; the one I felt whenever I was at Gale's family home and realized he was no longer there. Only this time Gale was present. It was everything else that seemed askew.

Gale whipped up something quick to eat and placed a plate in my lap, but I wasn't hungry in the slightest. There was no pushing the food around the plate at Gale's. Ironic, really, that we ever got to this point. Extra food leftover to share instead of starving on what meager means we had to support our families. Nothing was the same as it had been just a few years ago. It seemed impossible for so much to have changed so quickly.

"How's District Twelve?" Gale asked after a while, managing to find a topic we hadn't already exhausted. Funny how it wasn't the first topic we thought of. Home. Where we'd grown up together. That we'd fought so hard to protect and free. Was it already so far from both of our minds when you took us out of it?

"Rebuilding." I couldn't bring myself to mention what became of the Meadow. Somehow, it didn't feel important to mention it either. It wasn't as if he was ever going to return to see it. Or perhaps he had already found out. Then I mentioned the bakery, since it was the biggest news out of the district by far. Plus the opening had made the feeds, so he definitely ought to have already heard about it.

"Yeah." Gruff, monosyllabic Gale had, indeed, heard the news about Peeta's little pet project. "Hopefully he doesn't lose it and throw someone into the oven thinking they are a Capitol mutt."

I froze, unable to respond. The Gale I knew, my Gale, never could have been so cruel. He resented Peeta perhaps, or was jealous, but he'd never been cruel. And what he'd just said? It brought to light a side of him I never thought I'd see. It made the evil inside me whisper that this was the guy who could have orchestrated the plan that caused the Capitol to surrender.

"Maybe we shouldn't talk about Peeta," I decided, grinding my teeth to prevent myself from saying what I really thought. Any step in that direction would lead where I didn't want to go. It was an uncomfortable visit to be sure, but it hadn't been horrible up until that point. I didn't want to ruin it more than he just had. So I let it slide, even though it made my fists clench and my heart hammer.

Gale mused, "Always protecting each other, you and Peeta." Again, I forced myself to let it go. He was angry, I reasoned, and his reaction was to lash out. I way the same way when put in that position. But the conversation died with his comments. I didn't touch my food. Gale took the plate and scraped the food off into the trash. I almost cringed at the waste. So he had done well for himself, in this new job in Two. So well he didn't have to want for anything. And it seemed he'd forgotten what it felt like to barely get by and need more.

It brought another topic to mind, his own love life, but it was one I didn't want to touch on. Tension already sat with us, and I knew that my curiosity would push us over the edge.

Showing a spark of the old Gale, he offered up his room and decided to take the couch. I hadn't decided on how long I would be staying, and he hadn't asked. I hadn't thought about the logistics behind staying the night, but the last train had undoubtedly departed the station, and I had nowhere else to go. So I took him up on his offer with the minimal amount of conversation possible.


	24. Regrets

I laid in the unfamiliar bed, tossing and turning for what felt like hours. Sleep did not come. I couldn't get past the fact that I was surrounded by his smell. The sheets, the comforter, the pillow. Everything in the room reminded me of Gale. Being in his bed was more than I could handle, but I had no means of escape. Leaving the bedroom would mean facing him in the living room, and I wasn't so sure that would be any better. Being with him that afternoon had left me a mess of mixed feelings. Being around him was uncomfortable, yet familiar. I was so angry at him for what he'd said about Peeta, but I couldn't bring myself to tell him that.

There had been a time when we hadn't had any secrets between us. Now, it seemed that was all that remained. That sentiment kept me up until almost sunrise, when I finally faded off from sheer exhaustion.

Sleep didn't come easy, and it didn't last long. It was difficult to gauge how long I'd drifted off for, but the sun had barely moved in its track in the sky. I woke up screaming from my normal Gale nightmare, no doubt attributed to my current location. I could still feel his calloused hands as he pulled me in and told me it was too late. I'd woken up before he'd morphed into Peeta.

As I detangled myself from the sheets, I knew I needed to leave. There was nothing here for me, not anymore. With the image of Prim being blown to bits still fresh in my mind, the last thing I wanted to do was spend another day around Gale. Just thinking of him sent my temper flaring.

His knock came on the door as I came to the conclusion. "Come in," I replied, busying myself with stuffing the few items I'd removed the previous night back into my bag.

Entering the room, he took one look at the bag, and whatever expression had been forming changed. "Running away already?" he asked. His tone was anything but amused.

"It was a mistake to come." Shoving my shirt from the previous day into the bag, I zipped it up and flung it over my shoulder. If only Effie could have seen me. I think it would have caused her to have a stroke, all my items from the trip stuffed into such a small bag. I could practically hear her protest that there wasn't even room for a cocktail dress in it, let alone a ball gown or two.

"Stay," he said. It was a request, but he said it with such a sense of urgency. As if leaving meant I would never return. And maybe it did. I wasn't sure. The only thing I was sure of was that I needed to get out of his home, out of his district, before the memories consumed me.

"I can't." I hoped he heard the conflict in my words. I wanted to, I did. I yearned for a way to sort things out with him. I missed having my best friend. Everything in District Twelve had changed since the war, and losing him only made things ten times worse.

But Prim. Skies above, Prim. One look at his face, and all I could see was her. I felt that annoying prick in the corners of my eyes again, and I willed away the tears. I'd cried enough in the past few months to last a lifetime, and I would rather catch fire again than cry in front of Gale now.

"I don't want to leave things this way between us, Katniss. Especially since I'm afraid I'll never see you again."

How did he know? But of course he knew. Gale knew me better than I knew myself sometimes. He probably took one look at me and knew I was going to scurry out like the coward I was.

"I can't. I'm sorry, but I can't. It's too soon. Everything is still so..." I lifted my hands to either side of my head, my fingers angled towards my cheeks. As if that explained anything at all. But I couldn't put the words together. The thoughts refused to be coherent in my head. I was focusing my whole attention on not looking directly at him, knowing I would fall to pieces if I did.

I moved past him, making my escape through the doorway. Unfamiliar with his home, I got turned around in the hallway and had to backtrack in the opposite direction. As I went back the way I came he stood in my way, and he didn't budge as I approached.

"Please," I said, but it made no difference.

"You think this is any easier for me?" he asked, agitated. "I still love you." His head dropped slightly as he confessed the words. "A part of me always will. That kills me, Katniss, because I know that I'll never be able to make up for the decisions I made. And I know that you're likely never going to let me. But I hope that, one day, you will at least be able to understand why I made them. For the greater good and for the freedom we all now have."

"Dammit, Gale," I snapped. It took all my strength not to push forward and shove him. "That's not good enough! Your good intentions, your regrets - which you don't even seen to have - won't bring Prim back. Nothing is going to bring Prim back. And nothing you're going to say will make it better."

I found myself not only mad at Gale, but furious with Peeta. Why had he even brought up this absurd idea? How in the world could he have possibly thought it would be wise for me to see Gale? A dark corner of my mind whispered that he'd done it intentionally, knowing it would drive the wedge between me and Gale deeper. But Peeta didn't have thoughts like that. Peeta didn't play those kinds of mind games. So why had he thought I was strong enough to deal with this?

"I know you're angry. You have every right to be, to hate me right now. But can you honestly say that you don't feel anything towards me at all?"

"It doesn't matter," I emphasized.

"It's all that matters," he argued. And though I should have seen it coming, though I ought to have been able to predict it, I was shocked when he closed the distance between us. His hands felt just as I remembered, just the way I dreamt, but it was a far cry from comforting. His kiss was similar to the first one we'd shared. Not at all doubtful or hesitant, but with an edge to it. The fact that I couldn't hold back the tears that trickled down my checks didn't deter him in the slightest.

I tried to push him away, but it only strengthened his hold and his resolve. He knew once he let me go, that would be it. I wouldn't forgive him for this assault. And I could tell, he wanted to prolong this small moment, this little delusion of his, as long as he possibly could.

I hated my body then, as it resigned to his grip. I forego pushing him away. My lips seemed to melt under his. The kiss was far from electric, but I was powerless to push him away, knowing it would only hurt him more. What had he said to me once? That I only ever kissed him when he was upset? Perhaps that's why, in that moment, I didn't push back harder. He was hurting, clear as day. It didn't seem to matter to him, however, that this was hurting me too.

When he pulled away, it took a moment to catch my breath. Releasing me, he took a step back and I almost doubled over, my eyes still clenched shut as I tried to hide the tears that had managed to escape. Then I straightened, and before either one of us knew it, I slapped him. Hard across his cheek, my hand vibrated and stung from the impact. Only as my hand dropped back to my side did I realize my entire body was shaking with rage.

Is this feeling what Peeta felt when he thought back on all the kisses we had shared during our first Games? Did he see them now as a personal affront, a tool used for the other person's whims? I didn't like being used like that. And though I had done it before to both of them to a certain extent, it gave Gale no right to return the favor now.

Then I said the one thing I knew would cut the deepest. The only thing I could think of that would ensure that Gale would let me pass without further protest. It hurt to say the words, but mixed with the anger I felt at his kiss, they almost felt justified. "Peeta is twice the man you'll ever be."

I didn't expect a response, but as I shoved pass him, he replied, "You're probably right. But you're no angel yourself."

I had to give him credit for finding his own deadly retort, the only one that cut through me like a sharpened knife as well. Because as I stormed off, hoping against all hopes that the train had a soon pending departure back home, I had to admit to myself that he was right.


	25. Hurt

I hardly ever used the portable sat phone I'd been given as one of the perks of being the Mockingjay, but as I sat on the train I couldn't resist the temptation to call Peeta. I needed to hear his reassuring voice with his never faltering optimism. Fortunately, I managed to catch him on his house line before he left for the bakery.

"Haymitch, if you tell me that another one of those damn geese of yours-"

"Not Haymitch," I interrupted, a smile already growing on my lips. Just picturing him standing there by the phone, shoulders tensed in impatience lightened my own mood.

"Katniss." I could hear his own smile in his voice. "Wasn't expecting to hear from you so soon."

I admitted, "Wasn't expecting to call so soon."

"Everything alright?"

No. Everything was far from alright. Everything was wrong, horribly wrong. I felt even more conflicted about Gale than before. But I didn't want to tell him that. It would only serve to make him feel guilty for suggesting the trip, and he didn't need that on his shoulders.

"Just wanted to hear your voice. It was weird, sleeping alone last night." Glancing out the window, I watched as green and brown foliage passed by in a blur of shapes and colors.

If he sensed my shifting in the topic, he didn't comment. "Nightmares?" He had to be running behind schedule, yet there was no hurry in his words. I had his full attention. More tension eased from my shoulders as I settled into conversation. If I closed my eyes, I could almost picture him sitting next to me.

Sinking back into the seat, I tilted my head up towards the roof. I remembered the last time we'd been on the train together. Where that had led. "They weren't pleasant dreams," I said.

"How long are you planning on staying?" There was a weight to his question, as if it carried several more unspoken ones with it.

"Peeta?"

"Yeah?"

I closed my eyes as I whispered, "Ask me."

A pause followed on the other end of the line. "Ask you what?"

It's hard to explain why it mattered so much to me in that moment. I didn't want for him to feel jealous. I didn't think there was anything to be jealous about, not anymore. Maybe never. Gale had kissed me, true, and I had in a way returned the kiss, but it hadn't meant anything. At least not to me. So why did I need so desperately to hear him say it? "Peeta, just say it."

He sighed, but it wasn't in frustration. It sounded almost as if it was in defeat. Then he finally said the words I needed to hear. "Katniss, come home."

"Okay," I whispered back before hanging up.

As soon as I reached town, I headed to his house. The train had been delayed with an issue during refueling, and I had been bouncing off the walls of the car waiting to arrive. By the time I walked up his front steps, I was exhausted from the previous day and from the long day of nothing but sitting on the train.

The fact that the doorbell went unanswered only fueled my foul mood. A quick peak at the window showed no one was home. The lights had been off in my house as well, so I could only assume he was still at the bakery.

The rain started to fall as I trudged back through town towards the bakery. The smell of freshly baked bread as I reached the outskirts of town told me my last assumption had been correct and that he was still hard at work. Impatience sizzled inside me as I hurried my pace, trying to beat the harder rain that was sure to follow.

I practically bursted through the front doors. He looked up, startled from the noise. He held a white washing cloth in his hand as he cleaned down the counter, part of his evening procedure as he prepared to close up shop. Catching sight of me, his arm stilled and the cleaning paused.

"Hi," he said softly, as if he wasn't entirely sure I was actually there. "If you want to grab a seat, I'll get you some tea while I finish closing up."

Ignoring the fact that I was dripping water and dragging mud across the floor, I moved straight to him. As soon as he was within arm's reach, I pulled him to me in a desperate hug. As if holding him would help root me to the ground and to reality.

"What's wrong?" he asked immediately, pulling me in closer despite my damp clothes and hair.

It was too much, too raw to talk about. Shaking my head, I turned my forehead into his neck, my cold nose pressed firmly into his warm skin.

All too soon, he pulled away. His eyes searched mine as he studied my face. "Are you okay?" he asked, though it was clear I was anything but.

I knew it was wrong. It was hypocritical of me, and unfair to him, but I couldn't stop myself. My lips found his in an instant, just as Gale's had done to mine that morning. My kiss was just as desperate as his, if not more so. I wasn't sure what I needed to prove and who I was trying to prove it to. Maybe I was just seeking comfort from Peeta, who was the only one who could give it to me anymore. I knew no matter the cause, it was enough material to keep the doctor going for our entire next session. But in the moment, it didn't matter.

I drew him into me, and I kissed him deeply, the way we'd kissed on the train. I wished then that I had just ignored his suggestion of visiting Gale. I wished I'd rode the rest of the way home with him yesterday instead of hopping off in Two.

Peeta pulled away far too quickly. His worry was plastered over his face. "What happened?" he asked, his voice tight and slightly demanding.

"Please don't ask. I don't want to talk about it. Not right now."

"Are you okay?" His hands slid to my elbows, and he held them gently as he continued to study me.

I was the one who was supposed to be watching over him, not the other way around. I was the one who needed to hold myself together, so that he could fall apart. One of us needed to be the strong one, and it wasn't fair for me to ask that of him so soon after everything that had happened.

I hated Gale for doing this to me. I hated myself for falling apart as I had. I had known going there wasn't going to be easy. I hadn't been naive enough to think that we were going to miraculously mend our broken relationship just by seeing each other. So why did I feel like I could hardly breathe? Why did I so desperately want to seek comfort in Peeta's arms?

"I'm not sure," I told him honestly. Then, feeling weaker with every second that passed, I pulled him to me in another hug. The smell of flour and butter and cinnamon that clung to him soothed me as much as his strong arms as they wrapped around my back. He didn't pull away or ask any more questions. Instead, he held me just as tight as I clung to him. He didn't say a word until I was ready to pull away and face what came next. Because no matter how much I wanted time to stop so I could collect my thoughts, life just kept on going. Tick tock, it was the eternal clock.


	26. Recuperating

Life did not simply continue on after that. The next day I only rose from bed twice, both times to use the restroom. When Peeta returned from the bakery and found me exactly where he'd left me in the morning, he grew concerned. As he suggested a walk through town for some fresh air, I mustered a shake of my head. I didn't want to leave the safety and comfort of the warm bed and the cool room. The sights around town would only stir up memories, memories I didn't want to face.

Plus, I was exhausted. Sleep would not come and in the brief instances when it did, I preferred to be awake. My nightmares returned in full force, and no amount of reassurance from Peeta helped chase them away. All I could see when I closed my eyes was Gale and Prim. They haunted me equally.

The second night was no better, and the second day followed in the same pattern, though Peeta grew worried still. "You have to eat," he said as he lingered on the edge of the bed, his body half there with me and half on his way out to the bakery to start the morning loaves.

"Not hungry," I mumbled into my pillow, which felt slightly dirty from my constant presence. I couldn't be bothered with a bath, no matter Peeta's urging. It required more energy than I had left.

"Katniss." His eyes were tired as he rubbed the bridge of his nose with exasperation. I hated to inflict these feelings upon him, hated to cause him worry. But I didn't have the answers that he wanted, and my body wouldn't feel the emotions I needed to pick myself back up. I hadn't realized until I returned that I had been hoping that somehow, Gale and I would be able to make it work. That he would apologize and beg for forgiveness. Things wouldn't return to the way they had been, they could never be that again, but we would at least find a way to be friends.

That lingering hope had died on the train back to Twelve. In its place was yet another empty hole in my heart, punched out from another loss I knew I would never get over. It didn't matter how much Peeta tried to tell me that we just needed more time. No amount of time would be able to fix it, and I knew that finally. Whatever Gale and I had, whatever we could have had, was gone, evaporated in the heat from the bomb that had taken Prim and left me a scared and broken mess.

"I'll eat later," I lied to appease him.

Peeta wasn't fooled by the empty promise. "You can't just lay around all day."

"Why not?" I asked, lifting my head briefly off the pillow. "I've got nothing better planned. I have no where I need to be, nothing that has to get done." No purpose left, I thought but didn't say.

Leaning back across the bed, Peeta collected my hands in his when I failed to tuck them away under the pillow fast enough. "I know that seeing Gale was painful. I don't know what happened, but I know that it hurt. And I'm sorry, I am. But you can't hide out in here forever. The world keeps turning outside. You have to turn with it."

I didn't have to do anything, I was fairly certain of that. If Prim could die, if my mother could leave, if Gale could be Gale, if Haymitch could drink his life away in his house, then there was nothing I felt I had to do.

Then Peeta opened his mouth again, and he said something I couldn't argue against. "Stay with me," he said softly, his fingers stroking mine. "Please," he added, having the manners I never had nor would ever have. Then he kissed my knuckles and left to open up the shop.

I had one thing after all, it appeared, that I had to do. I had to stay with Peeta; he was right. He wasn't allowed to abandon me and I wasn't allowed to quit on him. It infuriated me, this sole purpose I possessed. But it did nothing to get me out of bed that day. If anything, it made me burrow in deeper, crushed under the weight of that responsibility.

When Monday arrived on the third day, Peeta decided to leave the bakery shut for the day and stay in bed with me. To his credit, he didn't pressure me to get out of bed. Instead, he treated it as if it was a great idea. Declaring a day off would do him good, he rolled over when he woke and found me staring at the ceiling, making no attempt to rise.

His arm casually snaked across my stomach, his hand resting on the curve of my side. "Unless you'd rather be alone," he allowed, giving me a chance to opt out if I wanted.

Part of me wanted to tell him to go, and part of me was glad he was offering to stay. I'd almost asked it of him the day before, but I was tired of being selfish. And besides, the bakery was a raging success. No matter what time of day I passed by if the bakery was open, there were people lined up to make purchases. It didn't hurt that Peeta hardly charged a thing at all. He just managed to cover his costs, and that was fine with him. He wasn't in it to make a profit; he certainly didn't need the money. Money was something neither of us would ever worry about again. Some days, I cursed that particular part of my fate.

"I'd rather you stayed," I admitted, turning my head slowly to face him while staying on my back. "But I know you need to go."

"I don't need to do anything." It was true, I supposed. After all, hadn't I thought something similar just a moment ago?

He got up a little while later, but only to venture down to the kitchen to scrounge up some food. He returned a few moments later, and I immediately ate anything and everything he offered. For a while, we did nothing but sit in silence. He didn't pry and I didn't volunteer.

But as the morning stretched on, the weight of things left unspoken threatened to pull me apart inside. "I'm more confused than ever." I'd lost track of time, but the words finally spilled out at some point during the late morning or early afternoon.

A noncommittal sound resonated from Peeta, but he remained silent otherwise.

"I want to let it go so badly and just move on. But one look at Gale brought up everything I've been trying to forget for the past few months." Still, Peeta didn't say a word. "How do you deal with it?" I finally asked, though I was somewhat afraid of what his answer might be.

He shifted slightly in the bed beside me. I heard him let out a wide, loud yawn. I realized then that perhaps he had needed the day off after all, and that it wasn't all about me. Maybe he needed a day of nothing but relaxation to let himself catch up with his own success.

"I don't try to forget it," he said after a long while. "Avoiding it only gives it more power, more strength. I try to deal with it face on, to overcome it each time it encroaches on my life. It's not easy," he admitted, "but it gets a little easier each time I overcome it."

"I don't think I'm strong enough to do that." There, in the comfort and safety of the bed, it felt safe to say. It wasn't something I would ever be able to speak outside the walls of the house, or perhaps even outside the bedroom.

"I have faith in you," he said softly. I felt his fingers reach across the gap between us, and as his hand settled on mine, I held it gratefully. "I'll help you," he added, "just as you help me. We save each other, right?"

The question then became, did I want to be saved? Did I truly want to find a way to deal with Gale's betrayal, or was it easier to blame everything on him so that I didn't have to think about my own involvement in the steps that lead Prim to that particular place at that particular time. I wasn't sure.

Peeta sensed my hesitance. "You don't have to do this by yourself," he reminded me, but even as he said it I felt him pulling away. The mattress shifted under his weight and sprung back as he got out of the bed and disappeared out the door without explanation. My eyes turned to the open door in surprise, wondering where he was going and if he was coming back, confused by his sudden, unexplained departure.

When he returned a minute later, he was no longer empty handed. Tucked under his arm was an object I knew all too well. Just the sight of it made me anxious after everything we'd just talked about. As he set it on the bed near my side and crawled back into the comfort of the covers, I could read his mind. I didn't like what was coming next.

"It's time," he told me gently, opening the book up to the first clean page. He dropped an assortment of pens onto the duvet next to it. "We owe it to her."

I ignored it for a minute, ten minutes, an hour. Time warped around me as I stared the book down, but it wasn't going anywhere. Peeta had that determined look on his face, and I knew that while he hadn't been pressuring me to get out of bed the past few days, this was a subject he wasn't going to drop. Peeta would win this fight, one way or another, no matter how much protest I put forth.

So I slowly caved. We started by just staring stories, some he'd heard before, others I hadn't shared with anyone. It brought fresh waves of pain to my entire body, and I was thankful I was in bed; my legs would not have been able to support me. I talked and shared for ages, and Peeta doodled aimlessly on a few loose pieces of parchment we had tucked inside the book against the back cover. Once I started, a tidal wave rushed through me, and the words wouldn't stop. At some point, Peeta handed me a pen, and I began to write as I spoke.

It took hours and I filled page after page. The sun set, and we had to switch to artificial lighting as the night wore on and we continued to work. We didn't stop to eat or sleep or work on anything else. I was devoted, completely, to the project. I couldn't save her, but I wouldn't forget her. I wouldn't let anyone forget her. She would remain forever recorded, on the sheets inside the book, with all the others who had worked so hard and lost so much.


	27. Image of a Girl

When I cut my hair to relieve myself from the constant trickle of sweat pooling at the nape of my neck, I thought the entire district was going to riot. Haymitch's jaw actually went slack and hung slightly ajar the first time I walked into his house after making the split second decision one unbearable summer afternoon. I could tell there were a million different comments swimming through his head, but he couldn't pull himself together to utter a single one. I smirked at the small victory, taking pleasure in finally leaving him stunned beyond belief.

Greasy Sae actually gasped aloud, her hand flying to her chest when she first laid eyes on me after I hacked it off in the bathroom with a dull pair of scissors. She muttered a few incoherent words under her breath, then slowly raised her hand and rested it on my shoulder, still clutching her heart as if I had stabbed her. My question of if she was alright was answered solely with a sad shake of her head.

Even with Haymitch's, Greasy Sae's, and Hazelle's reactions, I didn't think much of it. It was simply hair, dead protein slowly pushing its way out of my body. It wasn't something I had stopped to contemplate. It was a hindrance that had been easily remedied, and that was it.

Until I saw Peeta's reaction. I walked into the bakery late afternoon, the handle of the door warmed by the constant glare of the sun as I pulled it open. He didn't glance up at first, bent over at the waist to retrieve a few pastries from the display while a young woman waited patiently. I noted the way her eyes took in every move of his muscles, every twitch of his fingers as he delicately plucked the pastries from their resting spot and wrapped them to go.

My own eyes twitched irritably at the sight. Which was ridiculous, but not really. On one hand, I had no real claim to Peeta. We had our moments when we were drawn together as if by some force of nature neither of us could fight, but we hardly ever mentioned those moments. At present, we were only friends. A weird definition of friendship, perhaps, but friends nonetheless. But this girl, so blatantly ogling him, did not know that. To the rest of the world, we were married, and blissfully so. And there she was, gawking at him like she wanted to dig into him with a fork and eat his heart out.

"What did you do?" His voice cracked in surprise as it rang out around the bakery. Several patrons sitting at the intricately designed metal tables glanced up in surprise. Even I startled in place, glancing around to find the offender. For a moment, I thought perhaps the girl had tried something untoward. Then I realized he was looking directly at me.

"What?" I asked, glancing around, still surprised at his outburst and wondering what I had done.

"Katniss, your hair," he stuttered in a state of shock.

"What about it?" I realized, then, his surprise, though I hadn't expected such a strong reaction. Still, I played it off as if it were nothing. To me, it hardly was.

"It's... gone."

"Not all of it," I assured him, as if he couldn't see the end result of my hack job myself. "It's hot," I added in my own defense.

Snapping his focus back to the customer in front of him, he finished wrapping up her goods. When he asked her if there was anything else he could help her with, I watched as she hesitated. Like she wanted to say more. I silently dared her to, but my own presence there must have taken away what little nerve she possessed. With a bashful shake of her head, she took the bag and scurried out the door.

Peeta followed quickly in her footsteps, pulling his white apron up over his head and tossing it onto the counter and he came around the displays and moved to stand before me. The look of shock was still clear as day on his face, and he couldn't seem to get over the fact that I'd given myself a haircut. His hand moved to take the ends of my hair, his wrist brushing against my shoulder.

"Tell me this isn't something I should worry about," he said after a long pause, still running strands of my hair through his fingers. As if he thought my haircut was some kind of masterful illusion.

"Peeta," I laughed, dropping my hands on his shoulders. "The heat just became too intolerable. That is all," I promised. I wasn't sure where his question even came from. Why would cutting my hair be cause for concern? I made a mental note to ask the doctor his thoughts during our next session.

"It's so short."

"It's not that short," I protested, but for the first time I briefly understood what everyone's hang up with my hair was. It had been a part of me, a part of my symbol. A part of the Mockingjay. My signature braid had been a thing all of its own, a simple gesture by my mother that had turned into so much more. To me, it had hardly mattered, but to the people of Panem, it had meant something real. A tiny bit of regret pushed through me, but it didn't last. I didn't have to follow their rules anymore. I was my own person, capable of making my own decisions. I only answered to myself.

And to Peeta, I realized. I hadn't thought cutting my hair would have mattered, but he had such a strange look in his eyes. "I should have asked you first."

"Don't be stupid," he replied, though he still toyed with my hair. "It's your hair, your body. If it's too hot, then cut it off. Simple at that." Only, it clearly wasn't that simple.

"But you hate it."

"Actually," he said as a coy smile formed in the corner of his lips, "I actually kind of like it. It's different, but it still feels like you." After a moment's hesitation, he released the ends of my hair, his hand moving closer to my head. Pushing his fingers through my hair, he ran his hand across my part, all the way down to my neck. "It's kind of sexy," he added, his voice dropped low.

"Well, you aren't the first one to have a coronary today." I chose to ignore his last comment, not sure how to process it in that moment.

"I'm sure the Capitol will have cameras here as soon as word gets out. This will be the juiciest gossip since the Tribute Memorial."

The mention of the memorial was like a punch to the gut. It brought up so many different memories, rushing through my head all at once. The two of us, on the train. Annie and the baby. Seeing Gale. Kissing Gale. Effie's dismay. I shook all the thoughts from my head at once. "Maybe you could trim it even for me, before the cameras come."

"Of course," Peeta said as he pulled his hand away and dropped his arm to his side. Tilting his head slightly back and to his right, he added, "I'd better get back. I've got a few loaves in the oven."

"Sure," I murmured. Then I remembered why I'd walked to the bakery in the first place. "If you can manage a day off tomorrow, I'd like to take you somewhere for the day." The blistering, oppressive heat reminded me of the lake, and how I used to swim to escape from it when I was younger. Peeta hadn't experience the lake yet, and though it had taken me a while to work up to it, I was ready to share that part of my life with him. The doctor said I needed to open up and let the people I cared about in, and this was a good first step for me.

"Can you live with a half day? I could open in the morning and close up at lunch."

"Sound great," I replied with a smile as he walked backward toward the kitchen. Peeta was a quick study in many aspects, and I was fairly confident I could teach him to swim in that amount of time, if he was even interested. "I'll see you for dinner?" I asked as he pushed the door into the kitchen open with his back.

"I'll be hungry," he promised before he disappeared back to work.


	28. Summertime

I arrived at the bakery just as a group of teenage girls skittered out, giggling madly. One was even blushing. As I passed by them to grab the door before it swung shut, I heard her proclaim with a sigh, "he touched my hand as he handed me the bag." Her friends' tittering followed me inside until the door mercifully closed behind me.

Had I been blind, all this time? I had never paid much attention to boys, and then my faked romance had ruled my life for a couple years following that. I had been blind to the way that girls reacted to Peeta, only to be forced with it every day lately thanks to his constant public appearance at the shop.

He looked up as I entered and told me to hang on for just a moment, he was almost done closing out the back. A few patrons lingered at the tables, but everyone was finished eating. As I glanced around the bakery, I couldn't help but notice that almost everyone present was of the young female variety. I mused again how structured I'd been in my early and mid-teens, and even now. I never would have wasted my time gushing over a guy while sitting in a store. One, we hadn't been able to afford anything in the stores. Two, I hadn't had precious time to waste.

"Okay, folks," he said as he reentered the bakery. I watched his trademark move of untying his apron we wore while he worked and pulling it off over his head. "Sorry to kick you out, but the lovely Mrs. Everdeen is here to whisk me away." The girls made small noises of protest, but rose from their seats all the same. "If I haven't opened up shop by morning it means she's killed me, and you should start up a search of the woods."

"He's kidding," I added loudly as their eyes grew wide with horror at the thought. "Although if he keeps this up, I wouldn't put it past me."

They lingered as long as possible, as if afraid to hand him over to my cruel, evil hands. I wanted to laugh, to tell them I would take good care of him in a very insinuating way, but I didn't say a word. In all honesty, it wasn't worth my trouble, and I refused to show even a hint of jealousy when I wasn't even sure that was what I was feeling.

"Ready?" I asked, a bit impatient to get out of town and away from the hordes of people. People continued to trickle back into Twelve to rebuild their lives as Panem settled down over the months. Every day, the town grew more and more crowded. While I knew it was a good thing, that these were the people I'd grown up with and spent my entire life with, a part of me resented them for abandoning our district in the first place. Where had they been while we toiled to bury the bodies and rebuild the square? How had they squandered the time away?

"Katniss." His hand rested on the small of my back. I jolted from the touch, unaware he'd come up beside me. "Are you with me?" the question was softly spoken and unsure. I wanted to ask, 'Where else would I be?', but we both knew there were a thousand places that pulled me away inside my mind.

"I'm here," I told him, forcing the belief into my words. "Come on." I started toward the door, to show him I was serious. "We've got a bit of a walk ahead of us." I paused just outside, my eyes doing a constant scan of the town square as he locked up. I'd tried to break the habit of always checking my surroundings. The doc said I needed to be more trusting, to feel safer in my surroundings so that I could learn to let go of a little bit of control. Half the stuff he said made little to no sense to me, but still I tried to follow his advice. After all, I couldn't ignore how much he'd done for Peeta. It would be a welcomed reprieve if he could manage the same for more. And to his credit, he hadn't given up on me yet, which was more than I could say for most of the people I'd met.

The walk past the meadow and through the woods was a good reminder of why I'd cut my hair. Even thrown back into a messy tail, the ends of it touched my slick neck and irritated me to no end. I spent the walk to the lake constantly swiping the back of my neck. I caught the amused look on Peeta's face when he thought I wasn't looking, but he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut.

When we reached the lake, he let out an impressed, "Wow."

I nodded in agreement, moving to a large rock to set down my bag. After I pulled a few towels from it, I eased my feet out of my boots and motioned for Peeta to do the same to his shoes. "We're going in?" he asked with a hint of unease.

"Today," I told him as I pulled my shirt up over my head to reveal the bathing suit I'd brought back from the Capitol with me when I'd returned home, "I am going to teach you how to swim." Reaching back into the bag, I tossed him the bathing suit I'd brought for him. It had been a lot more difficult to acquire since I hadn't had the foresight to grab it while in the Capitol. It had taken a few phone calls and a few days of waiting for the train, but it had finally arrived and steeled my resolve to share this special place with him. "You can change behind a tree," I said, motioning to the edge of the clearing.

"Come on, Katniss, it's nothing you haven't seen before." Despite the long walk in the beating rays of the sun, he was in a remarkably good mood. I had hoped we'd gotten over the teasing of my innocence, but I guessed not. He held back further retorts as he ambled to the edge and disappeared, reappearing a minute later.

As I slid off my shorts, he returned to my side. It was then that I caught sight of his bare chest for the first time in months. I'd seen his muscles through the material of his shirt, and I'd caught obscured views of his bare back while he changed in the evenings, but he always slept with an undershirt on. Even in the water arena, he'd worn a full piece suit.

Seeing him standing there, his proximity so close to mine, did a funny thing to my heart. It flipped in my chest and started to pound a bit more frantically as I tried to stop myself from staring. I knew that Peeta had muscles, of course I did, but I had apparently forgotten exactly how well they suited him.

I cleared my throat, scratching the back of my neck. Edging towards the lake's shore, I tried to glance anywhere and everywhere but directly at him. "Do you want to try by yourself at first, or do you want me to guide you in?"

"I've been in water before," he reminded me, moving easily past me and wading in.

"But it didn't go so well," I pointed out. Finnick had dove in after him and had struggled to bring him back to the surface. I pushed the memory quickly from my head. I didn't want to think about Finnick. Not there, in the lake that had always held a special meaning to me. I was willing to share it with Peeta, but not with my inner demons. They weren't welcome there.

As expected, Peeta was a quick study. He started with floating on his back, then began arching his arms gracefully behind him in a backstroke. I noticed, however, that while he quickly picked up on paddling with his hands, he refused to kick with his legs. When I finally asked him about it, he looked embarrassed.

"I only have the one," he said, standing waist deep in the water.

It took a moment for me to get the meaning behind his words. When they sank in, I felt incredibly foolish. I was so used to Peeta's prosthetic leg that I hadn't even thought about it. Though it wasn't flesh and bone, he was so adapted to it that it seemed like just another part of his body. I never stopped to think that perhaps it might make it more difficult for him to swim.

"I'm sorry," I apologized. I couldn't stop my eyes as they darted down, but the murky green water hid everything below its depths. That left me focused on his abs, which only served to distract me when I needed to stay focused. "I didn't even stop to think... I didn't consider..."

"No, I'm sorry," Peeta countered as he tousled his wet hair with his fingers. Rivulets of water dripped down his face and neck as a result, and I watched them trail down his body until they hit the surface of the lake. "It doesn't affect my swimming at all. It's just embarrassing. A glaring reminder of how imperfect I am now."

I laughed. It was horrible, and the complete opposite of what I ought to have done, but I couldn't help it. Peeta thinking he was anything but perfect was absurd. He was the one always telling me I had no idea the effect I had on people, and yet there he stood thinking a prosthetic leg somehow took away from the rest of him. "Peeta," I insisted, "you couldn't be anything less than completely charming no matter how hard you tried." His look of self-defeat enabled me to stay the words without embarrassment of my own. It was simply fact, after all.

"Your perfection is complete, I swear." I couldn't help but stare as his abs again as I said it. "You can't honestly tell me that you haven't noticed the twittering girls that come into your bakery in hordes just to gaze longing at you."

He scoffed in reply. "Are you serious?" I laughed, unable to hide the smirk of disbelief on my face. "You wouldn't believe the way they look at you and talk about you when they think I'm not listening or looking. I swear, half of them are hoping I trip and bash my brains on a rock in the woods and the other half are plotting ways to discreetly kill me.

"You survived two Games, and you survived the war. You professed your love in front of the entire nation, and you spent both Games just trying to protect me and keep me alive. You are the guy that every girl out there wants, Peeta. To think anything less of yourself is ridiculous."

"Right, because everyone wants to go to sleep next to someone who might end up choking them to death during a night terror episode."

"They don't know those things about you," I reminded him. "And even if they did, it wouldn't matter." I couldn't bring myself to point out that I was a prime example. I invited him into my bed every evening fully aware that possibility still existed. But that small doubt, that little fear, was worth everything else that he brought me.

"They would think I was a monster. The Capitol's mutt. That's what you called me. And you were right. They took my leg in the Games and they stripped away my humanity in the War."

It hurt, having my own words used against me in his defense. I had said those words out of hurt, lashing out at him in my own frustration. And maybe I had meant them at the time, but it hadn't been true. "You might never get your leg back," I admitted, "but you haven't lost your humanity, Peeta. Even during the worst of it, you fought to know the truth. You wanted to do right. And it was only ever me you lashed out at. Your humanity was intact, and it still is."

I hated that we came full circle, time and time again. He couldn't get past his hijacking and I couldn't get past Prim. What followed next was only logical, even if it was foolish.

My hand rested against his chest, sliding on his slick skin until it rested over his heart. As I felt it beat beneath my touch, I held onto one of his shoulders to press gently into his heart with my other hand. "This is the truest heart in all of Panem," I told him. "It is loving and giving and kind. It never judges and it always aids those who need it. Even if your darkest times, you look out for others over yourself. Anyone would be foolish not to want it. To want you."

I gasped in surprise as his hands caught my waist and pulled me into him. The water splashed around us from the movement, and I had to hold onto his shoulder to keep myself upright as the water tried to pull me in the opposite direction. His lips were damp and tasted like the lake; slightly salty and with the barest hint of vegetation. It was an odd taste for the boy who so often tasted of flour and sugar and vanilla.

My foot slid against the muddy lake floor as I drew in closer. I caught him around the neck to balance myself, and his arms caught my leg and my back, angling me slightly back into the water as he leaned into me. Water dripped from his hair down my hands as I held the nape of his neck, threading my fingers through his hair.

It was the first time he'd touched the charred, mangled skin of my legs. I was meticulous about wearing long pants, even in the peak of summer. If he thought his prosthetic leg was embarrassing, I had him matched with my skin. But he didn't seem to notice. His hands did not pause or falter as they held me, and he didn't pull away in disgust.

As he kissed me, I kissed him back. And it was him I was kissing this time. There was no doubt in my mind. Gale was nowhere in my thoughts as he had been the last time in the bakery. And I wasn't facing the uncertainty of an uncomfortable meeting, as I had been on the train. In that lake, my lake, it was only the two of us, and everything outside the lake no longer existed in that moment.

It was exhilarating. I pulled him closer, my leg tucked between his arm and his chest, the other pressed against his hip. His bare chest pressed against the slippery, thin material of my suit. Even in the water, it felt as if nothing stood between us at all. It was different than all the other kisses we'd shared. The water around us charged it, and the flex of his muscles shot sparks through me.

My tongue dove into his mouth as somewhere, in the far corners of my mind, I reminded myself of how foolish it was to do this. We still weren't any closer to declaring what we were to one another, and we seemed to be finding ourselves in these types of situations more frequently than ever. There was something about him, like a magnetic pull, that drew me to him, but I still hadn't sorted out the root of those feelings. It laid the ground work to breaking him apart should my feelings be anything other than pure in intention. I didn't want to do that to him. I couldn't stand the thought of hurting him. And yet, as his tongue slid against mine and I moaned softly into his mouth, I couldn't bring myself to pull away either.

Was this love? This feeling I got, every time he kissed me, every time he touched me? Or was it simply lust, a fleeting feeling I could have for anyone? Even in my anger, I had felt something when Gale had kissed me. But I didn't want to think about Gale. Not in that moment, not in that place, and not with Peeta. I didn't want to think about anything at all. I wanted to lose myself in him, and revel in the fact that it no longer tore him apart to kiss me. At least, most of the time. It was a challenge, almost, to see how far we could take it without him pulling away.

Then the world tilted slightly, and I choked and gaged as I tried to breathe in through my nose as it filled with water. I was submerged, completely, and I hadn't reacted quickly enough. I'd been so wrapped up in him that at first, I hadn't even noticed. But I could feel his weight still pressing against me, and my feelings of elation quickly morphed into fear. Was he trying to drown me? Had the switch inside him so quickly flicked that he'd pushed me under without a thought?

Panic spread through me, but even in that moment I felt myself being pulled back up. As soon as my head broke the surface, I turned it to the side and began to cough. My whole body convulsed as I tried to expel the water from my lungs, finally succeeding as I threw up not only the water but a little bit of my lunch as well.

Simultaneously, I pushed myself away from Peeta. Once I'd finally caught my breath, I looked over to find him in a similar state. I hadn't realized I'd pulled him under with me. So it hadn't been intentional, then. As my heart tried to calm from its flurry, I took comfort in that realization. But the fact that my brain had automatically assumed it showed me that it wasn't just a challenge for Peeta, every time we kissed. I was challenging myself as well, hoping I wasn't putting myself in danger.

"Slipped," he coughed out, still trying to work the water out of his system. "Lost my footing. Sorry."

I only nodded, not sure what else to say. The moment, whatever it had been, whatever it had meant, was ruined. The fire inside me extinguished with that splash of water.

As we both caught our breaths and basked in the ability to breathe freely, neither one of us spoke a word about what had just happened. We never did. It was an unspoken fact that sometimes we toed that line between friendship and something more. I talked to the doctor about it, oddly enough, but couldn't bring myself to mention it to Peeta himself.

It stayed repressed as Peeta resumed attempting to swim. Neither one of us even hinted at what had just happened, but we managed to enjoy the remainder of the day regardless.

I knew that day would could, eventually. We would have to define what it was that existed between us. But until then, I enjoyed the coolness of the water, a welcome contrast to the heat of the sun and the heat of my skin at the reminder of his touch.


	29. Melody (Fall)

Haymitch's moods swung more than my own. It was nearly impossible to predict anymore how he would be when I showed up at his door. I did my best to arrive bearing gifts, but they were not always well received. Instead of being disappointed, I took it as a good sign. Maybe he wouldn't stay hidden under the bottom of a bottle forever. Maybe having two tributes survive not just the Games but the War as well would be enough to make him see the point in living his life again.

More than once, I reminded him that our efforts were a packaged deal. If he gave up, I had no reason to keep on trying to pass the days. And when he tried to use Peeta as my excuse, I reminded him that Peeta needed him just as much as he needed me. After all, on the rare occurrences when Peeta did backslide, it wasn't Haymitch he hated, it was me.

Though Peeta and I had become somewhat of an inseparable pair as of late, I was on my own with Haymitch that particular evening. The bakery was thriving, as always, and while Peeta felt bad that he wasn't going to make it to our weekly scheduled dinner, he couldn't tear himself away from the business. "Your shadow is missing," Haymitch commented immediately as he opened the front door and eyed me.

Dutifully, I handed over the bottle of wine I was carrying. A dry, red wine, it was not the hard alcohol he preferred. I certainly didn't want to feed his habit if he was trying to cut back, but I wasn't going to show up empty handed either, in case the train hadn't brought as much as he wished. In the balancing act that was Haymitch, it was better to err on the side of caution. "Some of us have work to do," I replied, easing past him into the dark, dank house.

"Not us."

"Not us," I agreed.

Hazelle wasn't the cook that Greasy Sae was, but she took care of Haymitch alright. A simple meal of potatoes and greens sat on the table, already served out on plates and bowls. I was thankful she had already left. I'd seen her in passing, but I hadn't talked to her since my impromptu trip to Two. I wasn't sure what, if anything, Gale had told her, so I wasn't sure where we stood. She was sweet, too sweet sometimes, and though I knew she was disappointed Gale and I didn't end up together, she had never held it against me. I wondered if that would still be the case, now that we'd shattered the broken bridge between us.

Dinner was a quiet affair. When we retired to the living room, silence still lapsed over us. It was only as I studied the sad, dusty piano wedged in the corner of the room that Haymitch paid me any notice.

"You don't have nearly the posh to play an instrument of that caliber," he told me. His tumbler sat on the coffee table but from what I could gather, it only contained water. If I hadn't known any better, I would have guessed he was sober.

With nothing better to do and no amount of dignity left to my name to speak of, I took his challenge in stride. Easing myself out of the oversized chair, I moved to the wooden bench in front of the piano. It groaned as I slid it out, its wooden legs scrapping against the floor. As I pushed back the fallboard, I coughed from the dust kicked up. Who knew the last time the piano had been played, if ever. Haymitch certainly didn't have hands steady enough to strike out a tune.

It had been a long time since I'd played. What little Madge had taught me sat in the back of my mind, neglected over the years. As I raised the hem of my shirt to dust off the dust settled on the keys, I racked my brain. By the time I finished, I could only recall a few simple beats I'd learned.

The keys felt foreign and unfamiliar under my touch as my fingers flexed and gently lowered onto them. I started with a key under the middle finger of my right hand. The note was loud in the otherwise empty room. But even that one touch felt oddly familiar, and the next note followed suit much easier than the first.

As if by muscle memory, my hands moved across the keys. It was nothing fancy, and I wasn't even sure it sounded good. I could barely hear the notes myself, instead paying attention to the movement of my fingers. I finished a simple melody and then sat there, my hands resting in my lap, staring at the piano. I couldn't help but wonder what had happened to the piano I'd learned to play on. Had it survived the bomb and the fire to the mansion? I doubted it. If the fire hadn't destroyed it, I was sure the crumbling structure had done a number on it.

"Have to admit, Sweetheart, I'm impressed. Who knew there was a single talent you possessed that didn't involve maiming someone or something?"

His remark pulled me back to the present, away from the memory and thoughts that led down a dark path. I slid the fallboard back down and pushed away from the piano. "I'm rather impressed myself," I admitted, surprised I had remembered as much. As I eased back into my chair, I tried to push thoughts of Madge out of my mind. But like the sweet tune that lingered in the room from the simple melody, the memory wouldn't seem to fade.


	30. Hunter

Just as swiftly as summer came, it departed. The coolness from the nights lingered in the mornings, and the sun no longer seemed like such a worthy opponent. Time passed faster and faster, and I wondered if that was the new routine of my life. Would the days always blur, now that nothing wholly remarkable occurred within them? Would time start to just pass me by completely? Would that really be so bad, compared to the alternative?

The efforts to resurrect the town began in full earnest as the oppression of the summer heat died down. Peeta started the ball rolling with the bakery, and the other citizens in town picked up his efforts like a war cry. Every time I passed through town, I noticed the differences. Changes and additions, each and every day, that strived to return Twelve to what it used to be but better. Free from the reign of the Capitol.

No one talked about the fact that we'd lost our main export of coal. The mines were completely boarded up by then, and the trains heading back to the Capitol returned mostly empty handed. The addition of Thirteen back into the fold helped make up for the loss, but we felt a bit of pressure from the government to find some way of supporting ourselves, to earn the increased but still meager rations we received until better methods could be sorted out by those in power.

For precisely these reasons, the market became the project for the fall. Nothing could bring the people of Twelve together like reinstituting the market. Though it was decided without discussion that the Hob would not be rebuilt, the market in the town square would become the new unofficial, official Hob. We all knew it. Now that we didn't have to hide our small hobbies and trades from the Peacekeepers, there was no need for the sketchy market of illegal trade.

The months blended together as the market went through its rebirth. Before I knew it, stalls and shops opened up and down the streets, and there was a steady stream of people milling about throughout the day. I picked up on my old routine, spreading my money about as best as I could, trying to find things I would actually find a use for.

Rooba stopped me one day as I walked past the butcher shop.

"Everdeen," she called out, stopping me in my tracks. I hadn't looked her way and had to backtrack a few paces. I'd been en route to the bakery, and my mind have been occupied with the cheese bun I knew awaited me just down the street.

I never knew what to expect any more when people stopped me in town. Some wanted to ask about my mother. Others asked how I was holding up, with that sympathetic look in their eyes that made me want to drive a knife through their hand. A few even asked if I'd heard from Gale, as if they had surmised that my marriage to Peeta was a fraud and that they still expected me to marry my cousin. Very few had anything original to ask, so when Rooba asked her next question, I thought I'd misheard. "Do you still hunt?"

Only those from the Hob and the few in town we'd traded with knew of my extracurricular activities in the woods, though I supposed my talent with a bow in my first Games was a not so subtle hint. Granted, almost everyone in town had probably seen me disappear into the woods at least once since my return to the district, but it wasn't a question people asked, as I no longer traded my fares in town.

"When the mood strikes," I replied. My hunting bag was slung over my shoulder, but it carried goods I'd purchased throughout the day in the market instead of fresh game.

"I'd be interested in purchasing your game, or trading for it if you prefer, if you are interested."

I didn't need the money or the trade. Peeta and I had more money than we knew what to do with, and anything we would trade for in town we could easily purchase instead. But I paused before I rejected the offer outright. It was an excuse to get back into the woods, something I did less and less of with every passing week. Instead of fretting my days around in the bakery doing nothing, I could do something with my time.

I was constantly looking for what my purpose was now that I had no real goal to strive for. Perhaps this was it. It would give me something to do apart from Peeta, so that we could grow back as separate people, even if we were together. It was a topic of much discussion, brought up no less than once in each of my weekly sessions with the doctor. I needed my own identity, my own sense of self. And I already hunted and spent time in the woods.

So instead of politely turning her down as I had intended, I somewhat surprised both of us by accepting the offer. It would be a challenge to myself as well, I realized. Since my return to the woods, I'd steered away from any big game, though I'd caught sight of a few I knew I could have taken. When I looked at them I saw the eyes of victors, of friends who had died, of others I hadn't known but had killed to protect myself. Killing people hadn't been like hunting animals at all, no matter what Gale thought. But now that I had done both, it was hard to separate the two in my mind. It gave me a goal to reach, especially since we weren't entirely sure how the economy of this new Panem would hold. Should our generous stipends from the Capitol cease, we still needed to know how to fend for ourselves.

"Alright," I agreed, though the word made my stomach a bit queasy as I said it. "When do you want the first delivery?"

"As soon as you can bring it," she gave me a toothy grin of her rotted mouth. "With the market booming again, demand is higher than the supply I can get. Especially since some of our best hunters didn't come back home."

Another punch to the gut, the offhand, thinly veiled reference to Gale.

Ignoring the mention of my formed partner, I gave her a slight nod. "Alright then."

I stopped off at the house, emptied out my bag, picked up my quiver, my bow, and my jacket, and set out to work.


	31. Prey

I couldn't bring the deer back into town by myself. I had to enlist the help of one of Gale's friends from the mines to help me carry it back. It took us forever, and I was sweating profusely by the time we hauled it to the edge of town. My shoulders ached and my arms burned. Even my legs where on the verge of collapsing.

Fortunately, Rooba was still at the shop by the time we dragged the carcass into the town. It was dusk as I dropped the bound legs I was holding and knocked on the back entrance door. For a fleeting moment, there was no response, and my heart sank. I had not thought through what I would do if she'd already closed up for the evening.

A moment later, the door swung in. My shoulders sagged with relief. While I didn't have to shoulder the weight of fear of getting caught by Peacekeepers, I had to shoulder the literal weight of the deer. It was almost a harder feat. As she squinted at me in the growing darkness, I side stepped and let her get a good look at what we'd brought in.

The somewhat sour look on her face instantly morphed into what I would almost call delight. "And they say you've lost your touch," she said with a shake of her head and a merry chuckle.

My feathers ruffled at that. I hadn't heard any such claims, but I wanted to know why she'd even thought it. Still, it was a question for another time. She motioned us to bring it in, and with a grunt I lifted it once more. My sockets screamed and my vision tunneled as I tried to focus on anything but the pain. Even in the fittest shape of my life, this haul would have been an ordeal.

The deer I'd taken down was massive; by far the biggest I'd ever seen in our woods. It had been a perfect first hit, but I'd still had to track him for a good ten or fifteen minutes until I lodged the final arrow that quieted him permanently. It had taken me another ten minutes to even approach the stilled body. Partly because I was waiting to see if it stirred, partly because I'd stepped on a large twig hidden beneath the bush in the chase and twisted my ankle, and partly because I feared that on approach I would see a different sight entirely. When I went to observe the kill, I expected my mind to morph it into a human.

Thankfully, my addled brain behaved for once. If only the rest of my body had been up for the task. Rooba, taking a hint from my labored breathing and my grunts, helped us lift it up onto the closest table. I almost collapsed when I finally let go. She disappeared into the room, telling me to wait for a moment. I tried my best not to look around at my surroundings.

When she returned, she held a small bag that jingled as she carried it. As was our custom before, we did not haggle over price. Whatever she offered was fair, and that was what it was going to be. She handed me the bag, but I hesitated. I wanted to give it back, but knew it would only insult her. People didn't mind when we paid for items we wouldn't use, but they didn't want our charity. The people of the Seam and of Twelve in general were much too proud for that.

So I took the bag with a heavy thanks, and then limped out of the shop without further ado. Gale's friend, I couldn't for the life of me remember his name, made to head out, but I called him up short. Pulling the twine from the pouch, I pour half the coins into my pocket. Then I retied the pouch and handed it over.

He looked at me as if I were mad. He gave the bag a good shake for emphasis. "Half is fair," I justified. "You did half the leg work of carrying it here. I never would have managed it by myself." He still looked uncertain. "Take it," I insisted. "And thank you."

Most of the guys from Gale's crew cast me weary looks when we passed on the street. I didn't know what he had told them about me, if anything, but it was clear they didn't hold me in the highest regard. It was probably taboo for him to offer his assistance, as he had when he'd seen me shuffling out of the woods and heading into town.

With a nod he accepted it before heading out without another word.

My walk back home was painful. It reminded me of my trip over the fence, when they'd reinstated the electric perimeter. It wasn't quite so bad, just a sprain at most this time, but the heavy lifting and the additional weight on it had not helped matters. It was going to be tender for at least a few days. If I had the stomach for it, I would ask Hazelle to help wrap it the next time I saw her.

As soon as I opened the front door, a wonderful aroma slapped me in the face. I had no idea what it was, but it smelled incredible. I lingered in the front hallway as I eased off my boots, hissing as it brushed up against my bad ankle. My jacket was even more painful to remove. My shoulders screamed murder as I arched my arms back to slide it from my shoulders. I barely had the strength to lift my arm to hang it on the coat rack.

Yet, through it all, I felt strangely invigorated. I'd never taken an animal as big as a deer down without Gale. I hadn't thought it had been possible. But I'd proven it to myself today. I only wished I'd been able to show it to him. I missed him, but now I knew that I didn't need him. Not entirely. It hurt, it ached, but it was possible to go on living this life without him here.

"Where have you been?" Peeta asked, appearing at the end of the hallway. He wasn't accusing, just curious. I couldn't remember the last time he'd beaten me home, but it had to have been before the bakery opened for business. He followed his question up quickly with, "You look like shit."

Peeta never cursed so it gave me pause. I almost laughed; I would have, if I hadn't been worried about how it would have made my abs ache.

"Well, I feel like it too. And probably smell along the same lines." No doubt I'd carried in some of the woods' less pleasant scents, along with my own foul odor from sweating so much. Dinner called out to me, but at the moment all I wanted was a bath. "But I bagged a big one."

I realized, then, that it had only been that afternoon when I'd made the deal with Rooba. He didn't know I'd spent the day hunting in the woods. Perhaps the only thing he did know was that I hadn't shown up for my afternoon cheese bun like I always did. And that I looked like shit, apparently. "I'll explain," I promised as I took the first few steps towards him in wincing limps.

Immediately, he arrived at my side. Sliding an arm around my waist, he pulled me against him to carry the burden of my weight. "Thanks," I said with a small grunt. "Any chance you think we'll make it up the stairs and to the bath? I need to soak my ankle before it swells. And the rest of me," I added, "before it falls apart."

In response, he tucked his arm behind my knees and lifted me as if I weighed nothing. Even the simple task of wrapping my arms around his neck for support took an effort I almost couldn't muster. Once he set me on the edge of the tub and began to run the water, I started at the beginning and told him everything. When he told me he missed me at the bakery, I told him I missed my cheese bun. He smiled, telling me he'd had a feeling and brought one home for me.

"We'll have fresh venison tomorrow," I told him, "as soon as Rooba finishing skinning and gutting it."

Peeta nodded as he turned off the water. "Do you need help in?"

I truly did, but there was no way I was going to say so. Just the thought of Peeta helping me strip off my clothes was more than I could process. "I'll manage," I lied, but I thanked him.

"Let me know if you need help back downstairs." He stood but did not leave. Then his thumb brushed across my forehead, and I could feel the grime caked against it. "I'm proud of you," he said. "And I'm looking forward to the venison."

As he left, he pulled the door shut behind him. I ached so badly, I dropped into the bath fully clothed.


	32. Deep in the Meadow

It was odd, how easy it became to share the lake with Peeta. Maybe it was the fact that the first time I brought him there, we ended up tangled in kisses. Perhaps it was just the fact that I felt like I no longer had any secrets from him, and sharing the lake with him just felt natural in a way. As we reached our normal spot, Peeta pulled the blanket out from under his arm and spread it over the grass. As he did, I kicked off my boots and took of my jacket. Carefully folding it, I set it atop the rock before easing myself down on the blanket and stretching out my legs.

Hazelle gave us hell for bringing the blanket out here, the few times we decided to have a picnic. She complained about the extra time and effort and elbow grease it took to get the grass stains and dirt off of it. It never once stopped us. I think, in all honesty, she was a little disappointed I was sharing the woods with Peeta. It had been mine and Gale's thing for so long, and now it wasn't. Just like that. But if I could get over it, then she would too, even if it took her a little longer. It had certainly taken me long enough.

Peeta pulled a slender, long loaf of bread out of the basket. He'd been secretive about what he had packed, and I was curious to find out why. A loaf of bread was hardly a surprise. When he broke off a portion and handed it to me, I eyed him wearily.

"What?" he laughed when he saw my look.

With a shrug of my shoulders, I accepted the bread. "You put a lot of effort into hiding what was in that basket. I have to say, I'm not that impressed by bread, Peeta."

"Try it," he told me with a gleam in his eye.

With a sound of skepticism, I tore off a piece and flicked it into my mouth. "Holy-" I started, trying to speak around the food still half chewed in my mouth. Freezing my jaw, I looked over to where he sat with a knowing smirk on his face. As if he had expected my reaction. As if he knew how amazing just that first bite alone tasted.

"Where did you learn this?" I asked after I swallowed. I was half tempted to let it dissolve in my mouth instead to prolong the flavor.

"I've been working on a few new recipes of my own. This is the first one that really worked. I wanted to see what you thought."

"I think I like this better than the cheese buns." Leaning toward him, I tried to grab another piece. Predicting my move, Peeta held his arm out behind him, turning away from me to extend it out of my reach.

"No need to get greedy," he taunted, leaning further out of the way as I perched on my knees and bent towards him, reaching still for the bread.

"You cannot just tease me with that little bit and then not deliver, Mellark." My fingers tapped against his lower arm as I leaned further into him still, stretching as far as possible but still not reaching it.

"Are we still talking about the bread?"

Only as I digested his question did I realize our proximity to each other. Only a few inches separated our faces, and even less our extended bodies. My cheeks burned at the insinuation behind his words, because it was the unspoken rule that we did not discuss such things.

Clearing my throat, I returned to my seated position, putting a little more distance between us before I sat back down. Failing to come up with anything else to do with my hands, I rubbed them against the side of my legs.

"I guess we are," Peeta answered for himself, his voice gentler than before. He broke off another section of bread and handed it to me. I had been prepared to devour the entire loaf if he let me, but my hunger was suddenly stipend. Instead, I picked small bites off in silence and chewed thoughtfully.

I hated the uncomfortable silence. The tension was palpable, and our unspoken thoughts hung heavily over us. I kept waiting for him to bring it up, without equivocation. But he stuck to eating his own bread as well.

Leaning back on my elbows, I squinted up at the sky. It was a semi cloudy day, the sky poking out behind clouds before ducking back for cover. A light breeze played with my loose strands, and my hair tickled my ears as it swayed in the wind. In my mind, I heard Gale. 'We could do it, you know'. I hadn't believed him then. Hadn't wanted to. And I knew it wouldn't have been the right decision. But sometimes I couldn't help but wonder what would have happened if we had gathered our families and run away. If I hadn't been reaped and thrown together with Peeta. Would I still have felt so confused?

No, I reasoned, because I would have been dead. Tracked down by the Peacekeepers and slaughtered, or captured and had my tongue cut out. Or, better yet, died in the woods trying to survive. As I glanced over at Peeta, just as I had to Gale, I could imagine him saying those same exact words. 'We could do it, you know'. Coming from him, sitting there in the woods, the words would have had a completely different meaning.

"Don't think too hard," was what he said next, as if he knew the internal musings inside my head. "Your brain might explode."

Turning onto my side, I reached blindly into the basket by his elbow. My fingers touched on something round, and I pulled out a clementine. I couldn't even remember picking it, but perhaps one of us had traded for it in town. Digging the nail of my thumb in, I pulled back the orange skin. I tried not to imagine my own skin peeling back in the fire. Sometimes, I wished my brain would explode and save me from these constant struggles.

As I bit into a section of clementine, I offered Peeta one as well. As he leaned toward me, I popped it into his mouth. But as he chewed on his and I chewed on mine, he didn't move away. His knuckles brushed against my thigh from his tilted position, his head near my arm.

His previous question repeated in my mind. I had definitely been talking about the bread, but his comment had me thinking along lines that didn't involve bread at all. And my own mind repeated, in his voice, 'We could do it, you know', and I knew that was true. If I opened up to him, the way he occasionally did to me, it would happen. It was inevitable.

"Peeta." His name was just a whisper, unsure of everything as I tilted my head towards his.

"You should go visit Gale again."

I jerked back as if he'd slapped me. "What?"

"Come on, Katniss. It's obvious that you still have unresolved feelings about him after your trip. And I know it was too soon then, but it's been a few months now. I think you ought to give it another go."

"Peeta." The way I said his name this time carried a completely different tone.

He shifted on the blanket, tilting his head back to get a better look at my face. "Sometimes, when you kiss me, I can't tell if you're kissing me, or if you're kissing him. Or just some idea of me you still have in your head."

Pursing my lips, I pressed them together almost painfully. Why did he have to ruin the moment? Why did he have to bring up Gale? And how could he have possibly known that Gale had been on my mind?

"You spent two years pretending. I don't want to pretend anymore. I can't handle pretending anymore."

A ragged breath escaped me.

"You know I'll wait for you," he told me softly. "Forever, if that's how long it takes. But these little moments, when you let your guard down and I still don't know what you're thinking... as much as I want to, I can't keep doing this. It's messing with my head."

I wanted to give him the answer I knew he wanted to hear. I really did. I could see that hopeful look in his eyes, even though I knew he fought to conceal it. Neither one of us was very good at pretending. Not anymore. And the last thing I wanted to do was hurt him. So all I could offer him was, "I'm sorry."

He reached for the fruit and peeled off another slice. Plucking it into his mouth, he spoke around it with a sad sigh, "I know."

And just like that, the uncomfortable silence returned as my heart split in two and sank.


	33. Harvest Festival

Before I realized it, it was upon us. The annual harvest festival. If I hadn't known better, I never would have guessed that it had skipped a year. I wouldn't have been able to tell that a year ago, District Twelve was pretty much nonexistent, and that the furthest thing from the immigrants' minds was the festival we took so much pride in.

There was no greater holiday in Twelve, and everyone was determined to pull out all the stops. Whether it was to prove that we were resilient, that our culture and our traditions were unbreakable no matter what uncertain future was still to come, I wasn't sure. But there was a fever, and it swept through the entire district. No one was spared, not even Haymitch or myself.

I hardly saw Peeta the entire week leading up to the festivities. He lived and breathed the bakery. I think there was a good three day span there towards the end where he never left the shop, and he probably didn't sleep.

His disappearance from the house made my uneasiness that much more palpable. Rumors abounded about which old residents of District Twelve would return for the celebrations. Some rumors even seemed to suggest that some of the residents would return for good. So when the Capitol caught wind of the fire, they only spread it further. It was a symbol to all of Panem, how we would lift ourselves up by our bootstraps and rebuild our country whole. Which was rather ironic, as I doubted many citizens in the Capitol even owned a single pair of boots.

With the Capitol involved, rumors turned to my mother and to Gale. And, of course, to me. I tried to ignore it, but I couldn't help but think that they would come, and I wasn't sure what to make of that or how to feel. Equal parts anticipation and dread filled me, especially with Peeta's suggestion of seeing Gale again still fresh in my mind. Time slowed to a crawl as the festival drew closer and closer. I contemplated ringing up my mother, but could never get my fingers to work the phone to dial. And Gale... I didn't even know his number and had even less motivation.

The night before the festival, I couldn't sleep. Peeta's lack of presence hit me twice as hard, and I resorted to allowing Buttercup into the bed, which never happened. He seemed to sense the opportunity he was given, because he didn't hiss at me once. As I stroked his fur, it was difficult to keep Prim from my thoughts. I wondered what we would be doing on the eve of the festival, if I'd never been reaped. If the war had never started, if she had never died. The game of 'Ifs' trailed on for quite some time without Peeta there to pull me from my thoughts.

As soon as the sun peeked over the horizon, I pushed myself out of the bed. Changing quickly and grabbing my jacket from the closet, I marched directly to Haymitch's house. A trip to the bakery would have been futile; Peeta was going to be busy all day, and it wouldn't have surprised me if people had already lined up outside the shop for morning pastries.

It took more than my usual amount of pounding on the door before a very haggled, very angry looking Haymitch ripped it open. Words were perched on the tip of his tongue as his eyes dilated and focused in on me. A few choice words spilled out, but they were aimed deliberately at me with intent.

"Got that out of your system?" I asked.

He sputtered, like he was going to add more, but I decided for him. "Good. Then how about you throw on a decent set of clothes that doesn't look like you slept in the pig slop, and you walk into town with me before the hounds come to our homes."

Since Effie was synonymous with District Twelve, she was being dispatched to attend the festival. Ever the one with the schedule, she had already tried calling and planning out the entire day on our behalves. I had declined politely; I doubted Haymitch's refusal had carried many manners. We had agreed, however, to partake in the festivities, though certainly not for the Capitol's benefit. It was tradition, after all, and I was excited to see what new concoctions Peeta had schemed up for the event.

The door slammed promptly in my face. Resisting the urge to pound my fist against it again, I counted off the time silently in my head while I tapped my foot impatiently. He had five minutes, I declared to myself, before I busted through a window and hauled him out.

He had twenty seconds left to spare when the door swung inward again. His hair was just as unkempt as always, and he carried a somewhat unpleasant odor with him, but his clothes were freshly laundered. Hazele wouldn't allow it any other way.

We took our time making our way into town. With the District still much on the mend, there wasn't much to harvest. It was mostly symbolic this year, which didn't leave a whole lot for us to do. Not that anyone could tell looking at the town square. Hustle and bustle flowed down every avenue. People moved in hordes, and the town square was packed to the brim with just about everyone in the district present.

Without a target in mind, we wandered aimlessly, and it suited us just fine. Everywhere we went, I found myself scanning the crowd. Conflicted, I both hoped and feared seeing either Gale or my mother. And as the day grew old, it dawned on me that the rumors had been simply that – rumors. I had been foolish to even consider the possibility of either of them making a return for the celebration. And yet, I couldn't help but be disappointed that neither had thought the event a good enough excuse to come home.

Only, I realized, it wasn't home for them any longer. Home was a subjective term for the members of the exodus who hadn't returned. I was certain that Gale was comfortable in his cushy new district job in Two, and my mother was too busy helping heal people to miss me where she was.

Haymitch caught my brooding and did his best to pull me out of it. He suggested a trip to the bakery to try Peeta's newest delicacies, but I suggested we continue walking. The line outside the bakery wrapped around the building, and he didn't need any distractions while he was still so busy. So Haymitch and I continued to walk, weaving in and out of the crowds, chatting aimlessly about his geese, about Buttercup, about pretty much anything and everything of no importance. And the whole time, all I could think was that it was finally sinking in that Gale and my mother were gone, for good. And as was the case with most things anymore, I wasn't sure how that made me feel.

Running into Effie, forgetting we were trying to avoid her, snapped me out of my mood. Her enthusiasm and excitement were infectious. No matter how hard I tried to wallow in my sour attitude, she wouldn't have it. At the sight of us, she smiled brightly and clapped her hands together in excitement. "Our Victors are here!" she exclaimed to the crowd, motioning for them to open up a path for us to the center of the town square.

My feet immediately began to backpedal, but Haymitch caught my wrist in a tight grip. He pulled me back to his side, his dirty nails digging into the skin on my upper arm. "We've already been spotted, sweetheart. There's no escaping her now," he grumbled under his breath.

I wanted to argue, but I was too shocked by the fact that Haymitch was the one playing into Effie's gimmick. Peeta and I usually had to fight tooth and nail to get him to do anything that involved the Capitol and the blatant use of the Victors for their own gain. So as he pulled me forcefully toward where Effie waited, I didn't fight.

I felt like a deer with an arrow in its side, never having seen the hunter until it was far too late. A buzzing filled my ears and blocked out the vast majority of what Effie said. I stood beside Haymitch and smiled the best I could. Then I felt all eyes turn to me, and realized someone had probably just asked me a question. "What?" I asked. Everyone laughed, and Effie repeated the question everyone on the other end of the newsfeeds was dying to hear. "What does the future hold for Mr. and Mrs. Mellark?"

I almost answered nothing, since they had been killed in the bombing of the district. Then I realized she meant Peeta and myself. I had no idea what to say. These types of questions, this amount of attention, was exactly what I had been hoping to avoid. I'd dragged Haymitch out of his house to celebrate in an age old tradition, not to be made a spectacle of. "A lot of bread," I finally sputtered out.

Everyone laughed, and Effie mercifully took my cue to launch into a spiel about Peeta's bakery and how his success only continued to grow. I shrank back against Haymitch's side, trying to disappear into his shadow. I couldn't help but see the smirk plastered across his face. But it was only fair, I guessed. My just desserts, he would no doubt claim later.


	34. Healing

"What?" I asked, sure I had misheard.

"Don't sound so surprised," he laughed on the other end of the line. "And don't even attempt to act disappointed. You've been waiting for this moment since you first got saddled with me."

He wasn't wrong, but to my own shock I felt just that. Disappointment, mixed with a dash of fear, worry, and anxiety. I had come to rely on this time, once a week, when I could say anything I felt without feeling judged. I could spew the most hateful or self-depreciating things imaginable, and all he did was make me dig deeper.

When I had started my therapy sessions, I couldn't wait to get out of them. But when he said it was time for them to end, I felt an immense sense of panic at just the idea. "Are you sure?" I asked, thinking it might be a test, another part of his process of gauging my progress.

I thought I heard a reluctant sigh. "I am positive, Katniss, and I think you are too. I know you don't see it, and it's hard for you to even imagine it, but you're doing so much better than when we first started. You've allowed yourself to work on your interpersonal relationships. You even went and saw Gale-"

"Which went terribly," I reminded him.

"Exactly!" came the opposite response of what I was expecting. "It was terrible, and it only made you feel even worse and more confused. But you pulled yourself up out of that misery, and you've gone on living. That alone is a huge improvement over where we started."

"But I only did that because Peeta made me," I protested again.

"We both know that Peeta has never made you do anything in your life. No one can make you do anything you don't agree to, Katniss." I wanted to argue a thousand times over, but it was useless. "You opened yourself up to a relationship with Peeta, and it has helped you grow a little stronger each day."

"I still don't even know what kind of relationship we have!" I felt like screaming and crying at the same time. It was the most common feeling during my sessions with the doctor, and he knew it too. I think my open hostility at times was the major reason he never came to District Twelve to have our sessions face to face. It was safer for everyone involved to have a telephone and a good distance between us.

"You don't need me to figure that out, Katniss. You just need time. All you have to do is open yourself up to the possibilities for you in life. And that's something I cannot help you with. We've set the groundwork, but you have to take the walk the rest of the way yourself."

Grating my teeth, I held back my opinion on his stupid metaphor. "What about the journal?" I asked instead.

"What about it?" he countered.

Clinching my fists in annoyance, I counted down a few numbers in my head before I exploded on him. "What the hell am I supposed to do with it?" I asked, my jaw clenched tight.

"Whatever you want," came his reply, which was the most useless thing he'd said yet.

"Do I keep writing in it?"

"If you wish to. But you don't have to."

"How much is the Capitol paying you for this worldly advice, again?" I asked.

"Katniss," he laughed, immune to my irritation. "If you think it helps sort out the jumble of thoughts in your head then by all means, continue writing in it. But if you feel like it helps stick you to the past, and pulls you out of the present, then maybe stop. Toss it in the fire. Store it away in your closet for a rainy day. The possibilities are endless. That's my point."

I had given up on him having any point at all in this session, which was apparently our final one. "Wish you had started with your point. Could have saved us six months of this torture."

"There you go. No disappointment at all."

I sucked in a deep breath, impressed and a little unnerved that my head shrink was just as sarcastic as I was. "So this is really it?" I asked, still unsure.

"This is really it," he confirmed. "But that doesn't mean you get to stop working. A little each day, just like we've been doing." Leave it to him to still assign homework even after school ended. "Don't be afraid to reflect back on your past, but don't go there. Don't get stuck in the past, Ms. Everdeen. Your future is in front of you, and it's a bright one, if only you'll let it be."

"Fine." I said nonchalantly. I felt like I was letting him off the hook a little too easily, but didn't know what else there was to say. After nine months, or however long it had been, I had finally run out of things to say to him.

He seemed to sense it. "Good luck, Katniss."

"Are you sure you're sure?" I asked once more.

"Sure as the summer sun," he said, as if that was supposed to mean anything at all.

But I guess it had to do, because after that he promptly hung up. And just like that, my therapy ended. As did this mandated journal I've been keeping under his orders. So I guess the only question is, what comes next?


	35. White Rose

"What in the blazes are you doing?" he asks as he hobbles over from his house to mine.

Glancing up I wince into the sun, casting him in an eerily glow. "What does it look like I'm doing?" I ask, annoyed at the interruption. We have been a little less than friendly since the incident with Effie at the Harvest Festival. We both place the blame squarely on the other's shoulders, and I think it honestly just gives us something to do to pass the time. Grudges are fun like that.

"Looks like you've lost your bleeding mind," he replies, coming to a stop with his knees a foot away from my head. I'm thankful for the shade his body offers from the sun, even though the temperature is comfortable. I've spent so much time squinting through the late morning and afternoon that my eyes feel almost permanently half lidded now.

"Well, that is always a distinct possibility," I allow. Now that the doctor has dropped me as a patient, I can no longer repress my feelings and gush them out in our one hour session. So, instead, I am a constant mess of anxiety and uncertainty. Especially about what I'm doing right now. I haven't stopped second guessing myself since I started. Haymitch's clear astonishment is not helping in the slightest.

"You do realize what those are, don't you?" he asks. He leans down to get on my level, but it takes him a while with his achy old joints. I half expect him to stagger over and lose his balance, but once again his breath smells nothing like alcohol when it reaches my face. It's far from pleasant, but I doubt he'll ever get his grooming together enough to brush his teeth.

"What?" I ask, dropping the spade in my gloved hand. I use the opportunity to wipe my arm across my damp forehead.

"White roses?" It's more of a question than a statement. "Really, sweetheart?" When I continue to stare him down, he adds, "What did Peeta have to say about this?"

"Peeta thought it better to give me space and mind his own business."

Haymitch decides to flat out ignore my ever so subtle hint to get lost. Instead, he does the exact opposite. Rolling back, he plops himself down in the dirt, wincing likely from pain in his knees. "Well, pass it over then," he says, motioning to the spade.

"Are you serious?"

"I am out here sitting in the dirt with the sun beating on my back. Could I be anything but serious?"

He has a point, though I don't understand his motive at all. Handing him my spade, I search the area around me until I find my spare and pick it up.

"Dare I even ask why?" he doesn't look up as he jabs the spade into the dirt and starts to work on a hole.

"The doctor told me to remember the past, but not to live in it. So, I don't know. I guess, this way, I have a constant reminder of the past and all that's happened. But it's something that triggers this terrible feeling inside me, and it's something I've never been able to face before. So that should help me move on."

He snorts. "That sounds healthy."

"Well someone already has a monopoly on the alcohol shipments, so I figure this is the next best bet."

He squints at me as we work. "Now I remember why we don't hang out more without the boy."

"I'm surprised you could ever forget. Then again, I'm surprised you can remember anything at all with your head buried in a bottle." I should be commenting on what appears to be a recent stint of sobriety, but the biting words come naturally. Part of it is just a game between us. Though there is still some honest hostility there, I think it mostly is just the way we relate naturally to each other. It's the only way we outcasts know how to make friends.

"And I'm surprised you can see where to put that spade when your head is shoved so far up your-"

"Scone?" A loud voice interjects.

Amused by Haymitch's retort, I glance up at Peeta, home for the day on a rare break from the bakery. There was some kind of issue with the flour shipment this week, and his order has been delayed until the early morning train tomorrow.

"Not hungry," Haymitch and I reply in unison. I add, "But thank you. I could use some water, if you don't mind." He returns a minute later with glasses for both Haymitch and myself. His eyes linger on the potted roses we are transferring to the side of the house, but he doesn't say anything about them. "Let me know if you change your mind," is all he says, before clarifying, "about the scones." I get the feeling as I watch his retreating form that he wasn't talking about the scones at all.

"Trouble in paradise?" Haymitch asks as the front door swings shut behind Peeta.

"Paradise? What world do you live in? Oh wait, the alcohol induced one. Never mind."

"Are you still fending off his advances?" Haymitch asks after a beat.

"That," I say as I pull the rose from the pot and place it in the ground with a little more force than necessary, "is none of your business."

"And that is a yes."

"I didn't ask for your help. Because I don't need it. You're free to leave. I won't take it personally."

"Hazelle's cleaning," Haymitch grunts. "Got the windows open and is humming and everything. It was making me sick. Had to get out of the house."

"Ah, so to cure yourself from cheerfulness, you decided to come visit me. Now it makes sense."

"Hey, I'm digging these blasted holes for you, ain't I?"

That he is, though he isn't doing a very good job. Of course, neither am I. There is a reason that the only landscaping done on the property is the primroses that Peeta put in. I don't have a green thumb among my pair, and I can think of plenty of things I would rather be doing with my time. But it feels like an important step, and since Peeta is obviously not thrilled about the idea, then it's one I'm going to have to do myself. Or with Haymitch's help, I suppose.

So I cut back on the retorts, and we work in relative silence until the last of the flowers have been planted firmly in the ground. Haymitch grabs his glass to drink the ice that has since melted, and I level out the dirt around the roses. Leaning back, I study our handiwork. It isn't pretty or artistic by anyone's standards. I'm sure Effie's would have a heart attack if she saw the layout. But it's enough to serve its purpose. I won't be able to open a single window in the house and look out without catching sight of them. They will be a constant presence and reminder.

And they will give me strength, I hope. To face the demons of my past, to challenge them head on. To no longer be afraid of my demons. To try to move on.

Therapy was a much easier solution. But there's no turning back now.


	36. Thanksgiving

"You didn't have to come," I say for what has to be the twentieth time.

In response, he slides his hand into mine. Giving it a squeeze of reassurance, he nudges me in the side with his elbow. "What else was I going to do? Even Haymitch had plans."

He plays it off casually, but I'm thankful he offered and that I wasn't too stubborn to accept. I stare down the front door, still unable to make myself knock yet, and I don't know how I even would have gotten off the train if it hasn't been for his urging.

"This was a terrible idea," I say, my feet backpedaling. His grip holds firm, and he roots me to my spot. My heart sinks as he does the thing I have not been able to do myself. With his free hand, he reaches forward and raps on the door. Just like that. As if it is the easiest thing in the world.

My insides try to force their way out. Even the world starts to feel like it is spinning around me. Peeta wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me against him and giving me the support I cannot muster on my own.

I don't have time to dwell on how this makes me feel. The door swings in, and then she's just standing there. She looks so much like Prim that it hurts to see her at first. I look at her and see my sister in her features.

"Katniss." It's soft and familiar, so different from all the times I would call her name, plead with her, after my father's death. I hate that she seems so composed, that our roles have now reversed. She is uncertain, however, in how she stands. As if she might want to hug me, but doesn't know how to break the barrier between us that is currently Peeta.

He tries to pull away, but I keep him there. I am not ready. Not yet. Just seeing her is a punch to the gut, and the air has been knocked from my lungs. Tears threaten the corners of my eyes and I don't know why. I wanted this trip. I had practically demanded this visit. But now, now I can hardly even look at her.

And suddenly, I understand. Not completely, but I do. How it must have been for her, after Father died. To look at me and see him. In everything I did, in every feature of my face. I can almost sympathize, except that I had been a kid, and she had been my mother. It had been her job, her responsibility, to keep going. But now I see what it was like, and a part of me regrets how I treated her all those years. How much I resented her.

Then Peeta is pushing me towards her again, and I don't object. Her embrace is warm and familiar. She is so far away from home, and yet she smells just the same. A little bit of the Seam, a little bit of her merchant upbringing. A faint undertone of medicine clings to her clothes. She is still my mother, and she is my home. The part of my life that has been missing. The part I know will never come back.

"Hi." It's a half choke, half sob against her collar. Now that I'm in, I can't pull away. I cling to her almost desperately. Part of me is afraid of seeing her face when I look at her again. Of that stab of pain that will follow. By even thinking it, I imagine myself hugging Prim. And it hurts just as much.

I can no longer hold back the tears. I no longer try. Just like that, she lets go as well. In that instant, we are one of flesh and bone, alike more than we are different for the first time in my life.

It is a while before we make it off the front step and into the house. After ushering us into the living room, she disappears into the kitchen to put a kettle on. Peeta idly strokes my hair, and I lean into him as I close my eyes and take a shaky breath. This house is so different from ours, and yet it feels the same. It has the same touches and characteristics as my childhood home. There are even a few salvaged photos on the mantel, charred around the edges and slightly morphed from the heat.

The china rattles as she brings the tea out. She's just as nervous as I am. We both thank her, and she says that dinner is almost ready to serve. "It isn't much," she warns. I can't remember the last time she cooked for me and not the other way around.

"I'm sure it will be more than enough," I tell her, on my best behavior. I'm still trying to work this out. How I should feel, what I should do. As soon as the hug ended, the spell died. Now, the dynamic feels broken; wrong somehow. And for the first time in my life, I don't know what we should be to each other. I no longer have clearly defined roles predetermined in my mind, and I'm at a loss.

She sits. We sip tea and chat about nothing of consequence. After she returns from checking on the quail, "It'll be just a few minutes more," she asks the one question I've been dreading since we arrived. "Have you spoken to Gale recently?"

"Have you?" I ask, diverting the attention away from me for the moment. She seems unsure, then slowly nods. "We converse from time to time. He misses his family. Feels guilty about leaving Hazelle and the children." Her eyes dart towards the ceiling. "I can relate."

Peeta places a hand on my knee as a gentle warning. I press my lips together to keep from saying something I will regret. Does she know? After all this time, I am still uncertain. I never shared my suspicions, but I can't be the only one who put the pieces together. Did anyone think to mention to my mother that Gale, who did so much to help her family when she couldn't, very well could have been the one to take her daughter from her? Has she wondered? Does it torment her, like it does me?

I have to know, but I cannot ask, and I doubt she'll say. "But he is well?" I ask with a tight voice.

"He certainly has done well for himself." She sounds just as evasive as I'm trying to be. I guess that's another trait I inherited from her. Glancing down at Peeta's hand on my knee, she adds, "He has a new friend. She sounds as sweet as can be. From the way he describes her, she sounds like she looks like a Seam girl. I think she reminds him of home."

Each word is like a knife to my gut. My mother talks to Gale about his personal life? She cannot be bothered to pick up the phone and call me. She cannot even write a letter or send a video message. But she talks to Gale about girls he's infatuated with now?

My insides boil, and my temper flares. How dare he weasel his way into my mother, when she's shut out her own daughter. How dare he even speak to her, after what he did to Prim, to our family.

"Katniss," Peeta says, clearing his throat. His grip on my knee has turned painful, and it's what pulls me out of my blindness. "Since dinner is almost ready, we should go set the table." The look in his eyes tells me it is neither a suggestion nor up for debate.

When he stands, I follow. We are silent as we move into the kitchen. It takes a few tries to find the right cupboard for the plates, but we eventually track them down. Peeta hands them to me wordlessly, and I continue to silently fume as I carry them into the small dining room and set the table. It looks like an exact replica of the one we had in our house, which only infuriates me further.

"You aren't mad at your mother," he tells me softly, making me jump in my own skin. I hadn't heard him approach. I've gotten more and more careless these days. I set the last plate I'm holding down and turn around to face him.

"I'm not?" I ask. I'm pretty sure I am.

"You are mad at Gale," he clarifies for me, since he knows what I feel better than I do.

"Why am I mad at Gale?" I have to lower my voice midway through the question as it creeps up in anger.

"Pick a reason," Peeta says with a touch of his own anger. "Because he is talking to your mother, but not talking to you. Because he's found a Katniss look alike to replace you in his heart. Because he never came back."

I mean to tell him he's wrong. Instead, the words that come out are, "Stay out of my head."

He mumbles the next word under his breath, but it sounds an awful lot like 'gladly'.

My mother has moved into the kitchen. "Quail is ready," she proclaims softly, closing the oven and turning it off. "I'll just move this onto the table and we can eat."

"We should go wash up," Peeta says, once again speaking for me. I follow on his heels down the hallway, now just as mad at Peeta as I am with everyone else.

He stops just inside the doorway to the bathroom and turns to face me. As I open my mouth, he beats me to the punch. "Can you please, just this one, not turn this into a fight? I know you are upset and uncomfortable and angry, but she feels just as bad as you do. Spewing off at the mouth is not going to make anyone feel any better today. Let's just try to be civil."

"I-" I open my mouth, but can't think of what to say. Defensively I finally spit out, "I don't spew." Then, for good measure, I add, "And I don't care if Gale has a girlfriend." A look of disbelief crosses Peeta's face. Adamantly I insist, "I don't!" Though I don't know why I feel the need to mention anything about it at all.

His hands rest on my shoulders, and he pulls me a step closer. "I know this is the last thing you wanted to do today." I want to prove him wrong, to tell him it was my idea in the first place, but I'm tired of arguing. "But it means a lot to her that you are here. And it means a lot to you, too, even if you can't admit it. I don't have a family to be mad at anymore, Katniss. I don't have a family to have awkward conversations with, whom I can pick fights with over disagreements. You do, and you should be thankful for that, today of all days. She is the only family you have left. So, just for today, throw all that crap away. Just be here with her. Okay?"

He's getting awfully preachy, but he's right. I nod, and he finally releases me and moves to the sink to wash his hands. As he moves back into the hallway to let me in, I open my big mouth once more. "I don't care what Gale does."

"Oh, Katniss," he sighs. The look in his eyes carries a heavy weight of hurt and sadness. I try to make it better and only succeed in making it worse. I want to put my fist through the wall. Instead, I let him walk away as I turn on the sink and scrub my hands vigorously. After I turn off the water, I lean against the counter, pressing my palms into the rounded edge. A glance up at the mirror reveals a reflection I'm all too familiar with. A girl licked by flames, who carries the fire within her still as rage.

Then I drop my head. Closing my eyes, I count to ten. I force all the thoughts from my mind. When I open my eyes again, I will be Katniss Everdeen, grateful daughter. I will let go of all that crap, just as Peeta says. I will fake a smile and try to mean it. And I will get through this dinner without killing either one of them.

I hope.


	37. Thankful

It's easier to do than I expected. I dare say I even enjoy a good half of the evening. Conversation is slow to pick back up, but then Mother starts to tell us about what she's been up to since arriving at District Four. And instead of feeling hateful and resentful, I just listen to what she has to say. She even mentions the medicine factory and confirms that the rumors are true and that they hope to start breaking ground sometime next year.

We stay as long as possible, and it isn't even forced. I'm actually surprised when Peeta glances at the clock and mentions we need to go if we are going to catch the last train.

"You can stay," she offers. I am tempted, but I see her exterior crack just the slightest. She means well, but I don't think she means it. I don't think she knows how to have me back here, playing pretend. Staying the night would be too much, far too soon. It will only bring up reminders of Prim, so I politely decline.

"Well, come again. Whenever you want. You are always welcome." It sounds like friendly acquaintances talking, not a mother to a daughter.

"You're always welcome back home, too." She winces slightly at the word home, and I know I've crossed some invisible line I hadn't known to look for. I backtrack as quickly as possible. "We'll definitely come again. Soon." It feels like a lie even as I say it, but someday, maybe, I will.

She pulls me into another tight hug, and this time it is only her and me. No ghosts, no shadows, no reminders. When she pulls away, she touches my hair. "It's so short," she comments. "I like it," she says with a smile. That one comment almost breaks me.

"Peeta," she says, giving him a hug as well. "Take good care of her."

"I try," Peeta says with a smile and a sideways glance at me.

"Off you go, then," she says. "The trains wait for no one."

Technically not true, but I don't say so. No need to ruin the moment.

The walk back to the station is made difficult by the richness of the food in my stomach. I had never known my mother could cook such a delicate plate. It had been superb, and my stomach both aches from the richness and yearns for more.

We reach the station with a few minutes to spare, but there are no available seats available on the benches to perch while we wait. I practically groan as I find a light post to lean against. "Remind me to never eat that white sauce again," I comment to Peeta as I gently prod my gut.

He laughs. Shrugging out of his coat, he moves to wrap it around my shoulders. Only as I lean slightly off the post to allow it behind my back do I even realize I am shivering from the cold. One drink too many with dinner I figure is to blame.

His coat is a welcome comfort, and I pull it tighter around me as I sink back into it. "Thank you," I tell him. Then I meet his eyes and turn serious. "I mean it. Thank you for everything today." I reach for his hand, to let him known I mean it, and it's not something I'm saying just to say. "For coming with me. For keeping me from doing something stupid I would regret by tomorrow. I actually had a nice time tonight, and that's all thanks to you."

"Of course," he replies easily. Then adds, softly, "Always."

His hands slide into the front pockets of his jacket for warmth, bringing him a few steps closer to me. A warmness spreads through me. I blame it on the thickness of his jacket and the three glasses of wine in my belly. But as he moves closer, my heart leaps with anticipation. As if it recognizes this scenario, and can guess what happens next. My eyelids slowly shut on their own accord as my hands find his shoulders and draw him in.

But his head turns at the last moment, and my lips smack cold air as my cheek brushes against his nose. His hands turn awkwardly in the pockets, and the coat pulls towards my sides as he holds my waist through the coat. "We probably shouldn't," he says softly. Regret fills his words.

"Why?" I ask stupidly, my eyes still only partially open.

"I'd hate to ruin our record." His nose slides away from my cheek before his forehead rests against mine, tilting my head back to rest gently against the pole.

"Record?" I ask, even more confused now.

"Mmhmm." His breath tickles my eyes.

Licking my lips, I fight to breathe under his close proximity. I curse my body for reacting this way around him, always. As if I have no say in how I feel; no control at all. "What record?" I ask again.

I can hear the blast of the train's horn in the distance, signaling its arrival. I expect Peeta to pull away, but he doesn't move. "How long it's been since the last time we kissed. We made it three months this time. I honestly didn't think I had the self-control, and now I kind of don't want to ruin it."

My brain is still partly addled, and I can hardly understand what he's saying. The only thing I really take away from it is that he's taking pride in not kissing me. And that he wants to. But he won't. Which seems counterintuitive in my mind.

I am about to say as much when the train pulls to a stop. I happen to glance at it over Peeta's shoulder, and I do a double take at what I see in the window. "Haymitch."

It's Peeta's turn to be legitimately confused. "What?"

I turn Peeta away from me, twisting him as I point at the window I'm looking at. "Haymitch is on the train."

"What?" he asks again.

"What?" I agree.


	38. Familiar Faces (Winter)

The sight of Effie standing on my front door step is a shock. "Hi," I manage to get out while I rack my brain, trying to remember if we agreed to something Capitol related. Nothing comes to mind, but surely I must be forgetting something.

She pulls me in and kisses each cheek in turn. "Look at you!" she proclaims, switching me to arm's length as she takes in my appearance. "You look radiant. Positively radiant!"

It's a bold faced lie, seeing as how I was just getting ready to shed my hunting gear and bathe when she rang the bell. "Thank you," I tell her regardless. "It completely slipped my mind you were coming, or else I would have bathed earlier."

"Oh, no!" she exclaims. "You haven't forgotten at all. It is an unplanned visit, and I apologize for the intrusion."

With a smile, I usher her in. "You are never an intrusion, Effie," I tell her honestly. She may toe the line and work for the Capitol still, but she goes out of her way to give Peeta and myself as much privacy as possible. Though her unplanned visit is a little cause for concern. "No trouble, I hope?" I find myself wishing Peeta were here with me, even when Effie assures me there's no trouble at all.

"Things have never been better!" she proclaims cheerily. "In fact, I probably should have just called instead of showing up on your doorstep like this. But the last few times I've seen you, it's only been in passing, so I thought it the perfect excuse to make a trip out. I never thought I'd say this, but I miss District Twelve."

I smile as we move into the living room. Eyeing the clock, I realize Peeta should have been home by now. "Well, I'm glad you found an excuse to visit," although I'm not entirely sure that's true just yet. "Can I get you something to drink? Or eat? I know how long the train rides can be, and how the service is always a hit or miss."

"Oh, nonsense. Go take your bath. I insist." Her nose wrinkles just a tad as she speaks, and I wonder just how many odors I carried in from the woods with me today. However many, it is worth it. I bagged another deer, and got a handsome reward as well, paid out in the finest cuts of meat in lieu of cash. Peeta and I would be feasting for the next few weeks.

I'm about to tell her I'll just dash upstairs to change my clothes, but I can feel the grime and sweat from the day clinging to my body. So I take her up on the offer. "Make yourself at home. I won't be long. And Peeta should be home at any minute."

I bathe as quickly as possible. When I return downstairs, much more presentable, Peeta and Effie are chatting in the living room. Peeta's eyes crinkle when he sees me and he greets me warmly. "I hear you were quite the huntress today."

"Word sure does get around town fast." I had hoped to surprise him. Silently cursing whomever spoiled my news, I ask where he heard.

"Just about everyone coming into the bakery this evening. You are apparently quite the sight dragging a deer through town by yourself."

"Only to the Meadow," I correct him. "I had help the rest of the way."

"Still, you can imagine why the gossip is flowing."

"I would still think there would be better things to discuss. And I'm rather surprised the girls in the bakery could tear their eyes off you long enough to glance out the window and see me."

"Yes, well," Peeta laughs, "they saw you before they came in. And they made a point of telling me how disgusting you looked."

"Well, that I can believe." Wish a yawn, I roll my neck on my shoulders. I have a haunting suspicion that my muscles are going to ache tomorrow. "The good news is, it all washed off and we have quite the assortment to choose from for dinner."

"You will be staying, yes?" Peeta asks, turning his attention back to Effie.

For the first time, she looks uncomfortable. "Oh, well I-"

"Nonsense," Peeta protests before she can even muster up a poor excuse. "We have plenty of food, plenty of wine, and plenty of space. You have to stay. I insist it."

"Well, if you insist."

"I most certainly do. Katniss, why don't you call Haymitch and have him come around? It'll do him good to get out of the house."

I grunt. "I'm pretty sure if you turn your head towards the window, raise your voice an octave, and repeat the word wine again loudly, he'll be over quicker than you can get the cork out of the bottle."

"Too true. But maybe call him just to be safe."

"How about you call him, and I will get started on the preparations for dinner?" It only takes a single glance from me for him to realize that he is going to catch more bees with honey, and that I will be anything but pleasant to Haymitch on the phone.

As Peeta moves towards the phone, I make my way into the kitchen, telling Effie she's more than welcome to join me. In the kitchen, I cannot help but notice her entire presence while I rummage around to pull together everything I need. She's far more muted than usual. Apart from the vibrant purple of her hair, it isn't too noticeable that she's from the Capitol. Her clothes are plain, though with a splash of color. Even her makeup looks almost normal.

"Everything alright with you?" I ask, trying not to pry but curious all the same.

"Oh, quite so! Life in the Capitol is still adjusting and changing, but I am rather enjoying my new position. So much more responsibility, and far less grunt work."

We chat a bit, and she catches me up on the latest gossip in the Capitol. Most of it is about people I've never met or have even heard of, but a few names I recognize. I'm tempted to ask if she has anything regarding Gale or the members of my old prep team, but I bite my tongue. No sense bringing up those topics this evening.

As the smell of smoked meat fills the kitchen, Peeta finds his way in to warm up a loaf of bread. I eye the bread suspiciously, the memory of the fruitcake loaf still painfully fresh in my mind. "Relax," Peeta says as he catches my eye. "I learned my lesson. Have a little faith."

"I had faith. Until I ate it," I remind him. As if he could forget. The entire district is still recovering from that one.

"You make one mistake," Peeta grumbles under his breath jokingly as he turns on the oven. His hand rests on my waist as he moves around me at the stove to change the controls. It lingers a moment longer than necessary before he pulls away and joins Effie at the counter.

"Something smells like it died in here," Haymitch says by way of greeting as he enters. Then he looks up and catches sight of Effie, and his entire demeanor changes. His posture straightens immediately, and his hands reach up to run through his hair quickly, trying to make sense of the mess atop his head. I watch the production and have to stifle a laugh. Even Peeta seems surprised by Haymitch's quick change.

My eyes dart between Effie and Haymitch, and I'm suddenly reminded of Thanksgiving. Of seeing Haymitch on the train as it pulled into District Four. Hours of prodding, and all he ever told us was that he had business in the Capitol. From the way he is looking at Effie now, I have to wonder what that business entailed.

I share a look with Peeta, wondering if he's thinking the same thing I am. He raises his eyebrows high as he moves to grab a bottle of wine.

When Haymitch declines the glass Peeta offers, I about fall over from shock. "I'm sorry, what did you say?" I ask, sure there is no way I heard what I think I did.

"I'm fine with the water," he replies gruffly. Peeta and I are now staring at each other in amazement. Though I have noticed Haymitch's gradual inclination toward sobriety lately, he has never once passed up an offer for liquor in the entire time I have known him.

"Who are you and what have you done with Haymitch?"

The look he shoots me would cause just about anyone else to quiver in their shoes. As it is, I clamp my mouth shut and abstain from any further prodding into the matter.

We are halfway through dinner before Effie mentions the reason for her visit. When she does, I wish she'd waited until after dessert. "It's a great opportunity, Katniss. And no one deserves it as much as the two of you."

She, wisely, realizes that I am not buying into what she's selling. "I know it didn't work as well as you probably hoped last time," she says, misreading my silence. "But they have made such advances over the past year. And since you will already be in the Capitol for the anniversary, it is such perfect timing. Like it's meant to be!"

Neither Haymitch nor Peeta will look me in the eye now. "We're going to the Capitol for the anniversary?" I ask, since it's news to me. I try to keep my tone level. I doubt I succeed.

"Well, yes, of course. That was decided as soon as you returned to District Twelve." Effie writes it off as if it is a trivial matter. Peeta still won't look at me, which tells me that he has known for quite some time and decided not to tell me. Haymitch is looking at me now, and smirking, enjoying my extreme displeasure at the news. "And just imagine how lovely you would look for all the photos and interviews."

"Peeta," I grit out his name as I slap my napkin onto the table and push my chair back, "can I talk to you in the hallway for a moment?"

Peeta grabs his wine glass, polishing off the remaining liquid with amazing speed in only a few quick gulps. "I'd really rather not," he admits.

I shove the chair back to the table, gripping the back of it as I stand. "Do it anyway."

I hear his footsteps following me, but I don't stop until I'm at the other end of the hall. I doubt Effie and Haymitch will go out of their way to eavesdrop, but I don't want to make it easy for them. "Really?" I ask, spinning on him as soon as I reach the foyer.

"See, this is exactly why I didn't tell you."

"About the trip to the Capitol to be paraded around like an animal, or about Effie's absurd notion to get skin grafted again?"

"Either one."

I honestly had not been expecting this admission. "So you knew about the skin grafting too?" I ask, even angrier now.

"She called and mentioned it a week or two ago. I honestly didn't think she was that serious and that anything would come of it."

"Peeta," I am so upset I cannot form a coherent thought.

"Katniss," he rebuts, and though his tone is teasing, I sense that he is frustrated as well.

"Haven't they done enough to us?" I finally ask, knowing he of all people should understand where I am coming from. They stole our blood for the reaping. They primped us for the Games, polished our bodies and plucked out our hair. They put trackers in our skin. Then, because that wasn't enough, they hijacked Peeta's brain, and turned me into the Mockingjay. Peeta already has an artificial leg, and I've gone through skin grafting before.

"They aren't forcing us to do it this time. This time it is up to us, completely voluntary."

"Us?" I ask. Then I realize, of course it isn't just about me. Peeta has burns of his own, scars that he carries. "Do… do you want to?"

He's uneasy now, and I wonder why. He had no trouble calling me out a second ago, but now he's unsure. At least he isn't taking the offer lightly, then. "I do," he answers, "but also, I don't. Because I know if I want to, that will pressure you. And you are right. They have done enough to us. You should only do this if you think it will be _for_ you."

Dammit, he's right. I hate that even when I'm livid at him, he always seems to be right. I cannot recall the last time he was wrong. About anything. It's infuriating. "Fine," I say, because now I have to do it. And not just because Peeta wants to. I can hear Dr. Aurelius in the back of my head, telling me the skin grafting in another step of many in my road to recovery. Let them heal my body. Let them take away my scars on the outside, so I can work on the ones on in the inside. Even though our sessions are over, he's still constantly talking to me in my head. And I know it's not just me talking to myself, because I hate every suggestion his tiny voice says.

"You don't have to decide now," Peeta insists, and I see the guilt written plainly across his face.

"It's already decided. We'll do it. Together, as a team." Before he can refute, I grab his sleeve and pull him down the hallway. "Now let's go eat before the food gets cold. Plus, I don't want to miss out on all the awkward tension between Haymitch and Effie."


	39. Portrait of a Mockingjay

I have suffered an immense amount of pain in my life, both physical and emotional. I think this one takes the cake.

It doesn't matter that they rolled us into the operating room together, Peeta and I holding hands tighter than we did that first time on the chariot. As soon as the drug haze fell upon me, I felt his grasp being ripped from mine. As I went under completely, I was lost in the panic.

Waking up wasn't any better. No amount of painkillers could ease that mental awareness of the fire raging across my skin. The presence of Peeta's hand back in mine, his bed rolled up right alongside me, does little to remove the pain either. It's a constant itch all over my body only it burns, fast and furious. Everyone keeps telling us this reaction is normal. Nothing about this entire ordeal feels normal at all. I was to shed this skin and just try again. Or take back the burns and the patchwork quilt I had before. Anything but endure this pain any longer.

It isn't the pain itself that's the problem, though it certainly doesn't help. It's the memory that the pain conjurers. My mind is relentless, and I can't break away. Every time I close my eyes, I have the dream with Gale. Only, in my halfway sedated state, Gale no longer morphs into Peeta. He stays Gale, and Prim burns, and I burn, and I sink into an endless sea of agony.

Peeta recovers before I do. His hand disappears from mine, and I want to scream in terror. Then I feel him at my side, his touch as light as feathers on the bandages that cover my entire body. His face hovers just inside my peripheral. I hear the words he speaks, but they don't register in my mind. I try to just concentrate on his presence instead of the pain, and I continue to will the nightmares away, though they never stop.

Days pass, weeks… there is no sense of time. I eat through tubes in my arms, a puppet attached to strings. Peeta stays by my side the entire time. I know my recovery must be taking longer than expected when even Haymitch drops by to check in on me. His rough voice breaks through my fog, and I manage to answer him even though I cannot muster a witty retort.

They ease me off the painkillers, and I want to kill them all. Rip the tubes from my arms and stab them with the sharp needles on the ends. If only they could feel a fraction of the pain they have put me through. A few times, my brain tries to blame Peeta. It may not have been his idea, but he was the one who wanted to do it. And he's the one who recovered so quickly. But I force the thought away. This is not his fault. This is the Capitol. It is always the Capitol. Trying to remove the scars they gave me, as if to ease their conscience. And hurting me in the process. Always hurting me, caught in their games and their crosshairs.

When I finally rise from my stupor, Effie is relieved. "I almost thought you were going to sleep right through the anniversary festivities," she says with a shudder at just the idea. Now there's a thought. I will my body back to sleep, but it has slept enough, even after the rough dreams and horrors. It will have no more of that.

Peeta feeds me my first solid food is who knows how long. The nurse makes a feeble attempt, but the hostile glare I pin her down with is enough to break her resolve. So Peeta becomes my unofficial nurse. And as he spoon feeds me the delicate, rich food from the Capitol, I plant the idea of returning home, of leaving the Capitol behind. Let them have their celebrations for the end of the war. I don't feel much like celebrating myself.

Whether from guilt or from exhaustion himself, Peeta seems to agree. Oddly enough, it is Haymitch who throws the wrench in our escape plans. He says Effie will be insufferable if he is the only one who stays. Peeta, very cleverly, points out that Haymitch should come with us then. But he will have none of it. Mister Antigovernment, who wants nothing to do with anybody, is the one foiling our plans. I wonder if they rewired his brain while they patched our skin.

When I'm deemed recovered enough, they move us to an outpatient facility. It's just as stark and clinical as the hospital. The walls are white, the hallways smell of bleach. There's a quality to the air that makes you want to throw up. My attention stays trained on Peeta, wondering how this compares to where he was held while Snow was torturing him. Neither he nor Gale really talked about where they rescued him from, and I didn't have the stomach or the heart to ask.

He seems fine enough, though his moods are muted. He throws his attention into me, urging me to recover. But I see the light at the end of the tunnel, and it is a façade of celebration in the Capitol. So I drag my feet and prolong my recovery as much as I can, even though it still keeps me stuck here.

As Peeta's urging, I finally stand in front of the mirror in the bathroom, looking at my skin for the first time since they removed the bandages and wraps. It's flawless, brand new. A miracle.

It makes me sick.

I am perfect, then. At least in their eyes. My hearing is fixed, my skin is as perfect as a baby's. I half expect Peeta to have his leg back. When I ask, he pulls up his pants leg in response.

For a moment, I think they've actually managed it. Then he turns it to a certain angle, and I see just the hint of a seam from where the prosthetic ends and his leg begins. But for anyone who didn't know, they would be none the wiser. His new prosthetic looks amazingly real. "Even I got excited for a minute when I woke up. Then I realized I still couldn't feel my toes." With a shrug, he pushes the fabric back down.

I slink back to my bed, taking comfort in the warmth of the duvet. It is just as cold in the Capitol as it is in Twelve in the dead of winter, but Peeta still needs the windows open to sleep. The fire roars in the fireplace but does little to warm every nook and crevice of the rooms we are given. So I curl up under the blankets and will myself off into oblivion.

We creep closer and closer to the anniversary of the end of the war, but my mood does not improve. Effie's relentless checkups on our progress only make me more reluctant to ever leave the room. In truth, I am embarrassed about the vanity of it all. Why anyone would care if my skin is perfect or not. No one should be bothered by my burns if they didn't bother me. When I mention this to Peeta, he gets that look in his eyes that makes me nervous. Like he had an idea, but isn't at liberty to share it with the rest of us. That never seems to turn out well for me.

With our dinner, a box arrives. I go to retrieve it, but Peeta beats me to it. "Just a little something I requested," he says quizzically. I let it go, much more interested in the soup on the tray. When we finish eating, Peeta sets the tray on the floor by the front door. Usually, I would insist on taking it back to the kitchens myself and not waiting for a servant to wait on us hand and foot, but I refuse to leave the confines of this room. So it stays.

As I stretch out on the couch, wiggling my toes towards the roaring fire, Peeta goes to get the mysterious package. Propping myself up, I try to get a look inside. Seeing my intent, he covers it with his arm. "No peaking," he tells me sternly. Then he closes the box and disappears into the bathroom, knowing I am far too warm and comfortable to get up off the couch to open the box myself.

When he returns with a hand towel, I am beyond puzzled. "Do you trust me?" he asks.

That seems like a loaded question with a box I'm not allowed to look at and a hand towel in his hands. But this is Peeta, after all. It's probably ingredients for a new flavor of bread he's developing. After the fruitcake disaster, I wouldn't mind him keeping it under wraps for a while until he's done some major taste testing this time. "I guess," I tease, drawing out the second word. The glass of wine I had with dinner has relaxed my muscles that are already loose from the lack of exercise or straining over the past… however long we've been here.

He ties the hand towel around my eyes and then warns me there will be severe punishment for peaking. I yawn and lean back into the couch, becoming less and less interested with each passing second.

I've almost dosed off when I feel the coldness against the side of my stomach. I suck in air and startle from my daze, my hands reaching up to yank off the hand towel still secured around my head. "Hold still," he complains, "or you are going to ruin it."

Ruin what, I almost ask, but I have the hand towel off and can see for myself. Peeta is sitting on the floor by the couch, his legs stretched towards my head as his sits by my midsection. His index finger is red, and I gasp, thinking it's blood. Then I see the paints spread out on the coffee table, and I realize what was in the box.

"You're putting paint on me?" I ask, flabbergasted.

"No," he corrects me, "I'm painting you." As if there is a distinction between the two. "And if you keep wiggling around, you are going to ruin it."

"Why are you painting me?" I ask, craning my neck to try to see what he's doing, but he snaps at me this time to hold still. Only then do I notice that my shirt is pushed up to reveal my stomach, and my pajama bottoms are resting low on my hips. It's the oddest canvas I've ever seen. Though he did camouflage himself into the rocks and grass before, so perhaps skin isn't the worst material to paint on.

Still, it's uncomfortable. The embers in the fire still flicker, but they aren't as strong as they started and there is a bit of a draft in the room. The paint is definitely cold, and I flinch every time he touches me. Partly because it tickles, and partly because I am not the biggest fan of being touched. Not when shrapnel and flames have already left their mark there. Or, at least, where they used to. Slowly, his touch becomes familiar. My unease relaxes, as do my muscles. And the chill of the paint is replaced by a warmth that radiates through my body from the inside.

I let him work for a while, closing my eyes and trying not to think about it. It brings a whole new level of unease about the surgery they just did on me. It feels too intimate, sharing this new skin with him when I'm not even comfortable inside it yet. But as he paints, I realize perhaps that is his point. Peeta centers himself through his painting. I've always loved his paintings for how real they are, alive and visceral. Maybe he can do that to my skin.

I certainly feel alive. Every inch that his fingers explore and mark tingles. It's as if I am truly becoming aware of this new skin for the first time. When he reaches the hem of my shirt, I wait for him to push it further up. My breath catches in my throat and my pulse hammers. His fingers hesitate at the border, and I wait for him to look up at me. My head is almost nodding already.

But he doesn't. Instead, he ventures down and rolls the legs of my pajama pants up. He paints the fronts of my legs. Though it isn't nearly as intimate, I can't shake the feelings he's already stirred. The heat inside won't dissipate, even though the touch no longer lingers.

He paints for what feels like ages. My nerves are alive the entire time, intensely aware of every place he touches. As he reaches my upper thigh, he hesitates once more. I cannot look at him this time, afraid of what my face might betray. Instead, I gaze down at his work.

It is, in one instant, the worst thing I could ever imagine and the best. Peeta has turned me into the girl on fire. Flames lick every inch of my skin, dancing in the red, orange, and yellow hues of his paint he has so masterfully laid down on the canvas of my skin. I want to embrace it and tear it off from my skin at the same time.

There are no words. I meet his gaze, able to avoid it no longer. His fingers, still smeared with orange paint, the rustic color of sunset, rest on my thigh right below the bunched fabric. I want to ask him why he would do this, paint me in my nightmares. To make me face them? To remind me of why they put us through the skin grafting in the first place? But, above reason, what I want to do most is pull him to me and press my lips to his.

I have no idea where the urge comes from. It's different from all the other times we've kissed, where I've given into some selfish desire. It's still selfish, of course, these feelings coursing through me. But it feels like so much more. It isn't just the want to be close to someone, to share that intimacy that sparks the fire within me. For the first time I am certain that I, unequivocally, want Peeta. His skilled painter's hands have ravished me, and now I want to return the favor. There is no doubt in my mind, this time, if I'm transferring feelings for Gale onto Peeta; no uncertainty in what I'm feeling.

It's both enlightening and terrifying. Especially when I catch his arm and pull him to me, closing that distance and answering that question in his eye. And when he pulls back, it feels as if he's ripping my heart clear from my chest. "We shouldn't," he whispers. His hands are stroking my hair, forgetting the paint that cakes them and clumps my brown strands together. "You've had a lot to drink." I had one glass, and that felt like hours ago. "And it's getting late."

I can't tell if he's making excuses for himself or on my behalf, out of some noble idea that I'm projecting. I know that he still wonders if Gale is on my mind. He hasn't forgotten his idea that I should see Gale again, even though I've put the thought to rest. He doesn't know the thoughts in my head as I glance down at my stomach and my legs and up at my boy with the bread.

"Fine," I say, pushing away and uncoiling myself from the safety of the blanket tucked around my shoulders. I will accept his refusal, but I won't sit here and face him after it. I won't let him see the hurt and disappointment on my face. After all the times I've shut him down, unsure, he doesn't deserve it. "I should get to bed."

I don't worry if the paint is dry or not. I let my pants legs droop and my shirt drop. I carry the blanket with me to the bed, pulled tight around my shoulders as if it could protect me from his rejection. It doesn't make me feel any better. I crawl into the bed, sinking into its comfort and warmth. I forego brushing my teeth and my hair, and I don't worry about the paint caked to my skin. They are all issues that can wait until the morning, when I've had a chance to pull myself together and hide the hurt I feel.

The bed shifts behind me, and I feel him more than I hear him. When his arm wraps around my waist, I do my best not to react. My body continues to betray me, reacting to his touch. My nerves continue to tingle, and my whole body jitters. When his body curves into my back, it's almost more than I can stand. It doesn't seem to matter that we've woken up this way before. We've never fallen asleep coupled together, and somehow it feels so much more impactful.

His head rests against the back of mine, and I feel his breath on my neck. I have to clutch the pillow beneath my head to stop myself from reacting. He whispers three words so quietly I could pretend they are a figment of my imagination. But they aren't. When he says 'I love you' into the darkness of my hair, it only makes it harder to resist turning around and pulling him to me, damned the consequences.

We've passed the barrier, however, into the sacred space that is the bed. Where I've promised myself I'd let these feelings go unnoticed. So I don't react, at least not externally. But I don't sleep, either. There is no way I'll be able to sleep tonight, not with my head spinning and my heart racing.


	40. Evening Primrose

I would much prefer to stay exactly where I am, but Effie insists on a relocation the evening before the anniversary festivities are set to begin. "The rooms we have set up for you are much more comfortable," she assures us. "You will have so much more space to spread out. And the décor is far superior." She turns up her nose as she looks around our current accommodations.

I tell her we are fine with where we are, but she will have none of it. She is as persistent as ever, and before too long we find ourselves packing up what meager belongs we brought with us and following her out of the building. I try to distract myself from my surroundings. Looking around at the stark walls and hallways will only remind me of why I'm in this building in the first place. I much prefer having my skin tingle from Peeta's touch than burn from the memory of the surgery.

The paint still cakes my body. It's dried and only slightly smeared, part of it transferring to my pajamas in my rush to escape from my embarrassment last night. I've had all day to shower and wash it away, but I haven't. There's still something so intimate about having his painting on my body, and I'm not ready to get rid of it just yet, even if I can't quite look him in the eye.

I take solace in the fact that he can't meet my eye either. We follow Effie and we're quite the pair. Neither one of us wants to take in our surroundings, nor can we bear to face each other. So we both stare straight forward at Effie's back as we weave through the never ending hallways. When we make it out of the building, Effie immediately ushers us into a waiting vehicle. Thankfully, there is no crowd or hovercams surrounding the front of the building, waiting for a glimpse of the Starcrossed Lovers. Which means our perfect skin is a surprise for the anniversary, likely, or our release from the facility was simply not made public, much less likely.

We ride through the streets of the Capitol in silence. I keep my head down, not wanting to look out the window, too afraid I will recognize parts of it. Then I will remember where I saw it, and none of my memories from the Capitol, especially not this area, are worth recalling. They will only plague my sleep tonight, though I imagine just the thought of them will be enough to keep me awake.

Without looking at him, I reach over and casually slide my hand into Peeta's for comfort. Just because an awkward weight rests between us now doesn't mean I still can't turn to him for comfort. He might have pushed me away last night, but he would never deprive me of the comfort he can give, the safety in his touch. No matter what else there is, we are a team.

The car pulls to a halt quicker than I imagined it would, and when the door opens and I step out, my stomach plummets. We are in front of the training center, and Effie is already walking towards the front doors. I am not the only one caught off guard. Still holding my hand, Peeta is rooted to the ground next to me.

"Come, come," Effie says, taking no notice of our discomfort. "We are on a schedule. There is still so much to do before tomorrow morning. First things first, dinner!"

My spit is a rock in my throat as I try to swallow, but I take one step forward and then another. Peeta requires a little more prodding. Releasing his hand, I catch his upper arm and pull him gently. Trying to jump start his feet is not an easy task. Effie has already made it inside the doors and has turned around, now staring at us impatiently. Her and her schedules.

"Come on," I say gently, giving his arm another tug. "Trust me, you do not need to be on the receiving end of an Effie lecture." I don't think I've ever seen Peeta so terrified of anything in his life as he stares forward at the training center. "Are you okay?" I ask, leaning in to study him.

This movement seems to snap him out of his daze. "Fine," he says, and I know instantly it is one of those extremely rare instances in which he is lying to me. Weaving my arm through his, I guide him through the doors in case he tries to bolt. Partially, I'm trying to lend him strength. Partially, I'm using him to keep from cowering away myself.

Effie takes us up to our old level, chattering happily along the way. We both nod politely but do not comment. There isn't much to say. Unlike her, we do not have fond memories of this place. This center is where they prepared us for the slaughter. Twice. Where I first got to know Joanna and Finnick and so many others. The only memories I have of this place sting and burn. I am all too aware of the fire painted on my skin.

The elevator doors slide open and Haymitch is already waiting in the front foyer. As we step inside the suite, my eyes settle immediately on the flower arrangement in the middle of the room. Poised perfectly in the center of the table, they are arranged in an opaque, black vase. Over a dozen evening primroses sit innocently in the vase, their bright yellow a contrast to the rest of the room.

"Did you do this?" I ask. I'm facing Haymitch but I mean Peeta. I remember finding him home for the first time, outside my house planting the flowerbeds along the side of the house. I remember how upset it made me, and I channel all that emotion now. It's too much. It's all too much. This place, these flowers, this insufferable celebration that is supposed to mean the end of the war but means the death of my sister.

"I saw the flowers outside your house when I was there and thought it would be a nice touch," Effie chimes in. She speaks the words with pride. I want to lash out at her, to scream every vile thing in my mind, but I can't. Of course I can't. Because she doesn't know. Her sheltered, innocent little brain couldn't possibility comprehend the symbolism in the flowers. So I let it go, but for the first time I almost hate Effie for her naivety.

"Food." I manage to force the word from my lungs. I need to get out of the foyer, away from the flowers.

"Yes, excellent idea," Effie declares, leading us into the dining area. As we pass the table, I can't help one glance back. Because even though every glance is a punch to the gut, I can't help but compare how similar the yellow of the flowers is to the yellow paint Peeta laid all over my body. The mix of such violently different emotions finally undoes me. I break away from the others, from the safety of Peeta's hold, to stumble into the bathroom. I reach the sink just in time before I lose my breakfast.

Then I rinse my face and mouth, and wash my hands. When I sit down at the table, they pretend like they didn't hear my retching and I pretend like I'm fine. My, how great we've become at pretending.


	41. Hold Me Together

It's weird, being confined to separate quarters than Peeta. You would think that we would be given a shared room, what with us being married at all. But apparently not. Perhaps the higher ups that are aware that the marriage between Peeta and I is simply a ruse think we deserve our space. I silently curse them for making me roam the halls to find him, though I suppose I do need the exercise.

When Peeta doesn't show up for breakfast, I decide to find him. Haymitch, with his ever helpful suggestions, tells me I ought to give the boy space if he wants it. I tell Haymitch he can mind his own business and worry about his own affairs. Wandering the halls, looking for Peeta, I'm reminded of the other times we've been in the training center. I'm surprised, actually, that Paylor even authorized the use of the training center to house guests of the Capitol. I had rather hoped the whole building would have been burned to the ground by now.

But alas, here we are. Or here I am. I still haven't found him. He isn't in the room they gave him while we trained for our Games. I find him further down the hallway, about as far from my own room as possible. And when I open the door and find him, I wish I hadn't.

I should have known something was off when he didn't show up for breakfast. Actually, my first clue should have been the fact that I'd gone to sleep pulled protectively against his chest but had woken up alone. My first thought this morning should have been to go looking for him when he wasn't in bed next to me. When he didn't show up for breakfast, I should have switched to full panic mode. But as annoyed as I was with Haymitch's comments, I'd taken them to heart.

Now I wish desperately I hadn't. Peeta's sitting in the corner of the room hunched over. His white shirt blends into the stark white walls, and his beige pants fuses into the brownish shag carpet. His head is bent over in his slouch. I can't tell what he's doing but I know it's nothing good.

For a split second, I think about leaving before he realizes I'm here. I know he doesn't want me to see him like this; he wouldn't want anyone seeing him curled up in a ball in the corner of the room. But my breath catches as I see him. Something tells me it's even worse than it looks. I can't help but approach.

"Peeta?" I ask, unsure, as I move slowly across the room towards him. He's partly obscured by the furniture that stands between him and myself, but I can tell he doesn't look up. He doesn't even move, except to rock back and forth.

As I get closer, I hear the muttering. I can't make out what he's saying, and I can't tell if it's even coherent. As soon as the jumbled words hit my ears, I'm crossing the rest of the room as fast as I can. Reaching his side, I drop to my knees. "Peeta," I say again, trying and failing to mask the concern in my voice. It trembles as I stutter on the two syllables.

When I look down, my heart plummets. Somehow he managed to find a piece of coarse rope somewhere in the building. It's wrapped around his wrists in a figure eight in a crude set of makeshift cuffs. The sight alone is enough to make me want to vomit, but he's also turning his wrists and pulling them apart slightly, putting tension in the rope which in turns rubs against his wrists.

His wrists. Stars above, his wrists. They are so raw, so chaffed, all I can see is red. Blood trickles from one of them, slightly staining the rope. He doesn't even notice.

"My name is Peeta Mellark," he mumbles, his forehead bent to rest on his knuckles. His whole body continues to sway back and forth, unable to sit still. "I'm a tribute from District Twelve."

I know what he's doing. Of course I know what he's doing. I can hardly forget the nights he spent cuffed to a pipe, afraid of what he might do while we slept. I can't forget the way he begged for me to leave the cuffs on because the metal digging into his skin helped his mind stay present in the moment.

But I thought we'd gotten past the worst of it. I never expected for us to be back here again. My hands tremble violently as I reach out to him, my heart shattering in a million pieces at the sight. I croak, "Peeta."

His head lifts from his hands. His eyes are unfocused. Even as I settle my hands over his, stilling their movements to prevent any further damage, they won't stop shaking. "Peeta." I can't think of anything else to say to break him from the spell. My voice quivers as it is over just his name.

"My name is Peeta Mellark," he repeats.

I nod in agreement, my fingers moving to try to untangle the rope and release his hands. It takes forever, my fingers unable to cooperate well with the tremors. "Yes," I tell him, though even I am slightly unsure. "Peeta. Peeta Mellark. You are a baker. You are a painter. You are my best friend. Your favorite color is orange, like the sunset."

His eyes focus a little as I rattle off random things about him. Finally the rope slides from his wrists. He makes no effort to move, and I have to work it around his clenched fists. I know the gashes need to be cleaned so they don't get infected, but I'm too terrified to leave him here alone. Unsupervised, I'm afraid he'll snatch the rope up and pick up right where he left off.

"Come back to me," I ask. It works, usually, but I haven't seen him this far gone in ages. I really, truly thought we'd gotten past this part. Then I remember where we are, and I curse myself. He's surrounded by the place from where most of our nightmares originate. He's back in the Capitol, where he was tortured with the tracker jacker venom. Of course he's going to be worse here. Everything is amplified and made worse by his surroundings. I figured, after he did so well in the rehabilitation center, that it was going to be smooth sailing. But the rehab center didn't hold triggers, for either of us. This place is familiar. It haunts us both.

I think of how I reacted to the roses and choke on a sob. Selfish. I always come back to this adjective because it's what I am. No matter how hard I try, I can't escape it. I never once stopped to think about the memories Peeta was going to have to endure.

His hands slowly pull apart. I lock my thumb around his, my fingers curling around his hand. Slowly, his fingers do the same. He's starting to react to his surroundings again. "Ask me something," I suggest, though it's more like a plea.

"We've been in this building before," he says slowly, the words dragging off his tongue like syrup. "Real or not real?"

"Real," I tell him, glad he's picking up the game. It shows progress just that he's willing to try, that he's come far enough out of the daze to know what to do.

"We've slept in the room you're in together before this trip. Real or not real?"

"Real."

He looks at me. Truly looks at me, his eyes seeing me and not just glazed over as he stares into the darkness within him.

"I hate being here."

It feels like there are many levels to what he says. I can relate with more than one. Squeezing his hand tighter, I nod. "I know. But we'll get through this. As a team, you and I."

He nods back.

"Are you okay?" With my free hand, I reach up to swipe his loose blond locks from his face. His forehead is warm to my touch. I know he's not okay. It's obvious he's not okay. But I need to hear the lie before I can leave long enough to get a healing sap to put on his wrists.

His face tilts into my hand as he lets out a breath. Our joined hands are trembling slightly. I can't tell if it's him or me. "I'll be alright. I know you need to go get ready for today. I'm sure we're already behind in Effie's schedule."

I laugh aloud at the mere thought. "The last thing on my mind right now is the stupid festivities. Effie's going to have to drag me down there kicking and screaming as it is. But you're alright? For the moment?"

Another nod in response.

Slowly, I unravel my hand from his. I try not to look at his wrists as I dash out of the room, catching the first attendant I can find and making my request. She gives me a funny look, but doesn't say a word. Sometimes, I wonder if people see the real me, through the facade that the people with power still like to spin. Does this girl look at me and see the half crazed, half wild person that I am? Or will I forever be just the Mockingjay?

I follow her down the hallway, practically grabbing the supplies out of her hands as she pulls them from the cabinet. With a hurried thank you, I return to Peeta's room. Terrified that he'll be crumbled up in a fetal ball again, I'm surprised and grateful to find he's moved to sit in the armchair.

I know he's expecting a lecture of some kind, but he won't get one from me. I don't say a word as I pull up a chair next to him, placing the bottles she handed me on the end table nearby. His eyes study me as I work, doing the best I can to clean and cover the scrapes. I think of my mother, and it leads to thoughts of Prim. I push them all away. I have to be the one to hold it together this time around. I can't lean on Peeta when Peeta can't stand himself.

Tightening my jaw, I focus all my energy on the task at hand. I don't have their touch or their skill. Yet what I lack there I'll make up for with determination. I will stay by Peeta's side while we're in this insufferable place. I won't let him slip again. I'm keep him rooted here in the present where he belongs.

I refuse to let Snow and the Capitol keep on hurting him. He's suffered more than enough. I promise myself these things, and more, as I slowly massage the healing sap into his battered skin.


	42. Free Advice

I don't want to leave him, but I know he wants to be left alone. He's embarrassed by the cuts and bruises for though the sap helped cleaned them, it does nothing to hide them. So I honor his wish, but I stop Effie in the hallway. I tell her Peeta is ready for a member of his prep team to help him get dressed for the tribute interviews we have this afternoon before the ball.

Just the thought of the interviews and the ball make me sick to my stomach. It all feels too familiar, like I'm about to be sent back into yet another fight for my life. I am so wrapped up in my thoughts that I almost miss the voice at the door as I pass by the main hallway back toward my room. Freezing, I backtrack a few steps, hoping he didn't see me. He is the last thing I want to deal with right now.

Sneaking a peak around the wall, I can't see him. He's obscured by Haymitch, who must have answered the door. Though I can't see him, it is undoubtedly him. I would recognize that voice anywhere, and he is making no attempts to keep his volume down.

"Don't bother." I can't see what Haymitch is doing, but the words are sharp as I lean against the wall and eavesdrop. "I don't want to hear it. I know why you are here, and you can forget about it."

"It's none of your business," Gale interjects. Knowing that they must be talking about me, I have no qualms straining my ear to hear better.

"See, now, that's where you're wrong, kid. It may not have been my business in the past, but it sure as hell is my business now." My blood boils as Haymitch talks, wondering why he could possibly think that he has any say in any of it. "I don't care what you feel for that girl or what she feels about you. This isn't about either one of you."

Gale tries to interrupt, but Haymitch won't let him. I don't see it, but I hear it as Haymitch grabs Gale and shoves him against the door or the wall. "You both are real pieces of work. And, honestly, I think you deserve each other. You're both bitter and spiteful and angry." That's rich, coming from him of all people. "But she is the only thing holding that boy together right now. And as much as you two may deserve each other, he doesn't deserve to have his world ripped apart again so soon. He's just now pulling the pieces together."

I want to push around the wall, to tell Haymitch to mind to his own matters, since his own life is far from perfect. They continue to argue, and I stew on what Haymitch said. He's right, I realize. About everything he mentioned. I don't think Gale and I will ever work. Not really. Not anymore. He matches my fire with a deep, strong fire of his own. He's just as stubborn, just as sure of himself and his convictions. I learned throughout the war that all we seem to be able to do anymore is butt heads and kiss, wallowing in comfort from each other.

I don't want that. If anything, all I want is my friend back. I want my confidant in the woods, to whom I could tell anything. Who never judged me aloud for what I thought, although now I have to consider that he probably judged me silently.

How did things get so royally screwed up? It isn't just Prim. Even before the end of the war, we started to drift apart. When Gale started treating human lives as expendable, just another piece in the war. Suddenly, I'm glad Haymitch answered the door so I didn't have to. I don't want to talk to Gale. I'm still not ready, just as I've been telling Peeta these past few months any time he even hints at me trying to reconnect with Gale again. His fire is too strong, as evidenced by the way he continues to argue with Haymitch in the hallway. I've been the Girl on Fire. I never want to be caught in the flames again.

It takes Gale forever to come to terms with the fact that Haymitch is adamant about not letting him in any further. I wait in the hallway, just behind the wall, the entire time. When the door slams shut forcefully, I let out a deep sigh. Haymitch's footsteps clink against the tile. I hurry a ways back down the hallway so I can act as if I am just now walking by when we pass. But I drop the façade when I see him and give him an uncharacteristic, unexpected hug. "Should have known you were busy listening in," he grumbles against my hair.

"Thank you," is all I say in return.

"Yeah, well, don't get too excited. I didn't do it for you," he tells me as he pulls away. But I know that, at least in part, he did.


	43. Tribute Interview

Caesar Flickerman. I can't believe he still has this job. That we are sitting here on this same old forsaken loveseat, on the light blasted stage in front of a crowd packed to the walls. A few strands of grey hair peak out from the dyed purple, but otherwise he looks the same as the first time I met him up here.

I want to leap out of the loveseat and dig my nails into his perfectly painted face. I want to scream in rage that he put Peeta through those interviews; that he sat by and did nothing but his job while Peeta obviously deteriorated. But to do that, I would have to let go of Peeta's hand. Then Peeta would lose his anchor, and he's barely keeping it together as it is as Caesar asks an endless train of questions we don't want to answer.

For once, the show is not dominated by the witty banter between Caesar and Peeta. Instead, I do all the talking, with a few short comments added by Peeta here and there, while I hold his hand tightly in my lap. I'm careful to hold his sleeve down against his thumb to hide the after effects of this morning. His pain is on display as it is; I will give them no other scars to pick at. I'm still worried he's going to fall apart on camera, for all of Panem to see. So I do my best to make it as easy for him as possible though I know I'm failing miserably. He continues to shift uncomfortably in his seat as Flickerman quizzes us on our role in the war and what we are up to now a year later.

Every once in a while, Peeta's eyes dart offstage. He catches Effie or Haymitch, and the plea in his eyes is so painfully obvious. Get us out of here, they scream, silently but so loud. Let us go home, so we can fall apart privately.

Caesar cannot help but comment on our skin grafting. He tells us how wonderful we look, that you could never tell our skin was anything other than perfection. He marvels at the technology, and how we are experiencing a technological boom as the districts start to diversify their trades. He even asks me to get up and give a twirl for the crowd for old time's sake. I want to refuse; I'm terrified of letting go of Peeta's hand. But Peeta gives me an almost unperceivable nod, so I rise from the loveseat and spin before promptly reaching for him again.

Then the questions get even more personal. "Katniss," Caesar says, realizing by now that it is pointless to direct any of the conversation towards Peeta. It doesn't matter who he addresses; I've rushed into a spilled out answer for all his questions for the past ten minutes, twenty minutes - however long we've been up here. "How were you able to manage your relationship, your marriage, with Peeta in the Capitol and you in District Thirteen fighting against each other until Peeta was bravely rescued?"

"Peeta and I were never fighting each other." I struggle with the urge to cry as I see Cinna in the crowd. He looks just as he did during my first interview, and he's mouthing the same words. I know he's gone, but in this moment I want desperately to believe that everyone was wrong. That somehow he made it out from under the arena alive. That he survived the war, he was only in hiding. It's utter lies, but I choose in the moment to believe it. Because I can talk to him about this, when I can't share with anyone else. I've longed to talk to him about all of it, everything that has happened since I last saw him. "We were fighting to get back to each other, but never against."

The crowd sighs. I want to hurl. Flickerman apologizes for not being able to do more back then to help. Accusations and threats are on the tip of my tongue, but I see Cinna discreetly shake his head. I swallow them all. Their bitterness almost chokes me.

We make a little more small talk. Caesar plays some clips of us over the past couple years. Then he asks what we are up to now as our lives settle down. I want to tell him that I feel hard from settled, but so far I've managed not to go off on a rant. I'm trying to manage at least that illusion of calm. So I tell him that I like to hunt and, being the reliable old host of the Hunger Games that he is, he has some clips already prepared of my hunting and gathering in the first Games. I'm the one squeezing Peeta's hand now. I'm reminded for the millionth time that he is keeping me grounded as well.

Caesar is adjusting in his chair, angling himself towards Peeta. Before he can repeat the question, I dive in. "Peeta still paints. He's only gotten better over time. And, of course, he has the bakery."

The mention of the bakery is exactly what Caesar has been waiting for. He cannot say enough things about the bakery, and there are clips, too, of its opening. Our time is running out and I am just thinking we've managed to make it through this whole ordeal without completely unravelling when Caesar asks us his final question. "Katniss, Peeta, before you go. All of Panem is dying to know. Are there any plans for children in your future? We were all so devastated about the loss of your pregnancy during the Quarter Quell."

Funny, how these Capitol drones could feel such loss for something imaginary and yet not bat an eye about sending us into the arena to battle for our lives. Try as I might, I will never wrap my head around the Capitol mentality of morality and right versus wrong. There are so many angry things that come to mind, and I want to scream them all until I am hoarse. But I see Cinna a final time, just a shimmer in the crowd. His eyes are sad; he feels my loss. Of him, of Prim, of Finnick. For everything I've done, all those I have hurt.

I haven't even thought about it, not really. But as I ponder what to say, I realize my stance hasn't changed. Our future is still so uncertain. Less than a year ago, Coin purposed a Hunger Games for children of the Capitol, as the scars and wounds were still so fresh. What's to say we won't revert back to the punishment of the Games? Plutarch's words resonate in my head. I want to say that after what happened last time, I'm still a little afraid that the new freedoms are too good to be true. I want to point a finger at the Capitol and place the blame. I decide on something a little more subtle. "After the loss of the baby," I don't even have to pretend to be choked up because I'm imagining Prim, "we aren't rushing to start a family again."

The crowd goes silent. Even Flickerman doesn't know what to say, other than a hasty send off. Finally, we are allowed to stand and exit the stage. We pass Johanna as we make our way backstage, and she has a satisfied smirk she shoots my way. I doubt she's going to be as civil as I was, especially since she's shaved her head bald for the occasion. I give her a nod of approval as we pass, and I focus on getting Peeta back to our rooms and out of the spotlight until this evening.


	44. Anniversary

His hand finds my lower back as if guided there by some magical force. I didn't even hear him coming, but now he's standing by my side looking pristine in his white suit. Effie wanted to dress me in a white dress to match, but it reminds me too much of the wedding dress Snow forced upon me for the Quarter Quell. And just the thought of the wedding dress releases a flood of other memories - Cinna, Peeta saying we married in secret and that I was pregnant, all us victors holding hands on stage, my mom saying I was too young to even date. So I passed on the white dress.

The bright red dress she forced me into instead is hardly any better. It's tight, form fitting, and highly uncomfortable. Everything the Girl on Fire would wear, and nothing that Katniss Everdeen would step foot into. But after my adamant protest to the white dress I relented, giving Effie a win. The shortness of breath its tightness causes and the pinching in the sides is almost worth it to get Peeta to look at me the way he is now.

At some point over the past year he's become less guarded with his looks of admiration. He never did anything to mask his feelings for me, but he didn't constantly shove them into my face either. But now that he knows - or at least I hope he knows - that I'm trying to return the feeling, he's a lot more open with his expressions, even if he seems unwilling to act on them for the time being. It's a bit daunting knowing what I have to match. But in this moment, with the way his eyes sparkle as they catch mine, it feels worth it.

"Sorry I'm late," he whispers against my ear. I'd almost forgotten that I'm furious with him for leaving me here alone for the past half hour. Everyone and their mother has walked up to shake my hand and introduce themselves to me. No one can stop commenting on how marvelous I look and how fine a job they did patching up my skin. I gritted my teeth while I silently fumed, all the while worried about where Peeta was and why he was late, though Haymitch had promised not to leave him unaccompanied.

He's standing close beside me and I can see the makeup someone has skillfully applied to his wrists to cover the bruises. Instantly, I'm ashamed for even thinking of being mad. "I hadn't even noticed," I lie.

His laugh reverberates in my ear. "You're a terrible liar." It's such a relief to hear that laugh. To see the crinkle in the corner of his eye and the turn of his mouth upwards.

"Yes, but I hear my stellar personality makes up for it." My eye twitches slightly as I say it when I spot Gale across the room. A petite brunette clings to his arm, and it looks as if he's wearing her as an accessory. I cannot help but notice that she bears a striking resemblance to me, carrying certain characteristics my mother conveniently failed to mention during our visit.

Peeta's hand slides to cup my waist, and his other hand settles on my other side. My skin burns through the thick fabric of the dress at his touch. "Stop," he warns gently. His lips brush against my earlobe. He can see the path of my eyesight, and I swear he can read the vain thoughts in my head. "Obsessing is not going to fix anything."

"I'm not obsessing," I snap immediately in my own defense. "I'm not," I insist as his eyebrow quirks up in disbelief. He doesn't know about Gale's unexpected visit to our rooms. He didn't hear what Gale and Haymitch said to each other. Let him think what he will, I decide. I'd much rather keep it that way than to explain my uneasiness.

"She does look an awful lot like you," he comments, taking in the full silhouette of her looks from across the room.

"Now you stop," I mutter under my breath.

"Come on." With a light pressure on my waist, he urges me forward toward the dance floor. A few couples are mingling around. Even fewer are actually dancing. My heels dig in to protest, but my balance is precarious at best in the four inch heels Effie jammed my aching feet into. All the agonizing sessions we had prior to my first Games are compartmentalized and filed away in my brain. I have a hard enough time just standing up straight. Dancing will be next to impossible.

"Please," Peeta begs, a slight urgency in the word. I never thought I'd hear Peeta beg to dance, though he has no shortage of talent. "If any one of these Capitol people that look even vaguely familiar approach to shake my hand... it's not going to go well. I need you to distract me."

Rarely do the words 'I need' come out of Peeta's mouth. When they do, it's serious. Dreading the scene it's sure to cause, I take his hand regardless. Tightening my hold to reassure him I am here with him, I pull him out onto the floor. He pulls me about to face him, one hand raising up to catch mine, the other remaining at my waist. I'm glad for the visual barrier to keep myself from searching the room for Gale. It's been months since I saw him last, and I just keep replaying the conversation we had over and over again. It seems so contradicting to the sight I'm witnessing now. Almost as if he brought her here just to try to get a reaction out of me.

"Relax," I tell him, though I'm more tightly wound than he is. While my shoulders are square and rigid, his are relaxed and swooping naturally. Though his posture gives an air of total calm, I can tell he's still worked up. We dance close enough that I can hear the rapid succession of his heart hammering in his chest. I hate the government for doing this to him, for insisting that we come to this event since we've missed all the others.

The War is not a time either one of us is fond of remembering, and this lavish party does nothing to change that mood. All the twinkling hanging lights in the world couldn't make us more comfortable in this room, especially not Peeta. This trip has been horrible for him, and we still have a few days left before we are supposed to leave, though I doubt anyone is going to be able to convince us to stay past the morning. The constant attention from everyone trying to catch a glimpse of the star-crossed lovers from District Twelve does not help either, nor does the fact that this is the same ballroom we danced in for the Victory Tour.

"Hey." I grip his hand tighter as I notice the widening of his eyes and his labored breathing. The last thing I want is for him to have an episode here in front of everyone. The public thinks we are the well-adjusted faces of the revolution, and I don't want them to know otherwise. No one deserves to see the anguish Peeta suffers when reality starts to collapse down around him. He doesn't want their pity and they don't deserve to see his pain.

He's already starting to slip. I pull my hands from his. The song mercifully ends and the first notes of a slower song strike the air. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I pull him even closer. I can practically hear the whispers of delight from the people who are terrible at hiding the fact that they are watching our every move. "Stay with me," I ask softly.

His hands return to my waist where his grip tightens almost painfully. The struggle is clear on his face. It breaks my heart. There's nothing he wants more than to get out of here right now, and he knows that he can't. The frustration is clear on his face, and I know it's waging for control of his emotions as he tries to fight back the panic that comes with his episodes.

My hands slide to the sides of his neck, my thumbs stroking his cheeks. Pulling his head down to face me, our foreheads just touch. Our feet are barely moving. You could hardly call what we're doing dancing, but for the moment it's the least of my worries. I will not let him crumble in front of all these people. He will never be anything but perfect in their eyes. He is not broken, and they will not break him.

"Peeta." His eyes dilate as he hears me call his name.

"Katniss, I can't." It's almost a gasp.

"Yes, you can," I tell him firmly. I will not let him go. I cannot watch him struggle through that pain again. Seeing him in the room, the rope tied around his wrists, was already too much. This will break both of us. "Don't look at them. Look at me."

"I can't see you. All I see... all I see is... nothing. Everything."

He hasn't talked like this in ages and it terrifies me. Rocks me to my very core, because we haven't practiced this scenario before. I think about getting him out of here and just going back to our rooms, but it will only rise suspicions. Unless I set up a situation first.

My hands travel around to cup the back of his neck as I pull him down to me. Our lips barely touch at first, just a brush against each other. I force my feet to start dancing again, swaying awkwardly to the music. Peeta's legs follow suit.

His forehead rests against mine, the sides of our noses pressed together. "You are the strongest person I know," I whisper to him. "You can hold it together. Just until the end of the song. I know you can." I wait a bit, then brush my lips against his again. Gradually, I have to work it up. It's as if we're in the Games all over again. I can almost hear Haymitch's imaginary voice in my head as I try to figure out what I need to do to get food to survive.

It's ironic, really, but in some ways, this situation now feels a lot more life and death than that situation in the cave. Peeta returns the next kiss, and I'm uncertain if he's playing along or if he's in the moment. I wait for him to pull away, to remind me about our record that he's held so dear to his heart these past few months. I beg him to comply, to not make a scene. The record doesn't matter so long as my plan works. His hand slides around my back, his fingers cold as they touch the exposed skin of my lower back. With the application of light pressure, he pulls me into him completely.

The guests gathered around us no longer try to contain their silent whisperings. I hear hushed conversations all around us, twittering like mad little mockingjays. But I'm consumed in the moment as Peeta's lips play against mine. It's more than I would have done, more than is needed in the current situation, but I'm powerless to pull away. All I can think is, finally.

It's not just hunger and lust in Peeta's kiss. There's a sheer desperation to match the longing and desire. It feels as if he wants to consume me. I want to let him. My body reacts on its own accord, though I am hyper aware of the attention we are drawing. If there was no ulterior motive behind my actions, I never would have let the kiss deepen this far in public. But there is, and I do.

His tongue darts through my parted lips and I'm completely undone. My head spins. I feel dizzy, my focus drifting. It's too much, all at once, with everything surrounding us. But the passion behind Peeta's kiss, the way he pulls my body into his and presses his mouth into mine, it's centering him. I can feel it.

I let it go on for far too long. We're making a spectacle of ourselves and I'm embarrassed at just the thought. It doesn't matter if the whole country thinks we're married and that we've already had a miscarriage. I never wanted my feelings towards Peeta to be put on display again. I never wanted to act out our relationship for others, and that's exactly what this has become. A cheap façade for the masses.

Regrettably I pull away, though my body fights me with every millimeter. His breathing is still labored, though now I suspect it's for multiple reasons. "Come on," I whisper, nudging the side of his nose with mine to snap his focus. "Let's get you back to the privacy of the room."

My hand slides from his neck, catching his as I step back away from him. I can see now all the different sets of eyes gawking at us. I would blush if I weren't so preoccupied with getting Peeta out of here in one piece. He stands rooted in place and I have to give his arm a light tug to propel him into action. Let them think we are just two teenagers madly in love, off to the darkness of our bedroom.

His hand returns to my lower back, and he's almost pushing me as he guides me through the scandalized crowd towards the grand archway. We escape into the almost empty hallway, but I don't stop. I don't even slow down. If anything, my feet quicken their pace. I stumble more than once in these blasted shoes that Effie selected, having no way of knowing we'd be making a quick getaway soon after arriving.

I know the rumors are already flying through the air in the ballroom. By the morning, our lip locked faces will be plastered all over the newsfeeds throughout Panem. But as I fumble with the call button for the elevator, I let out a strangled breath as I pull Peeta inside. It will be worth it, I tell myself, to keep this other part of him a secret. Anything is worth that, I reason.

As the door to our rooms swings shut behind us, I take another deep breath in relief. When I glance up, I catch the funny look in Peeta's eyes. The one that tells me that he isn't entirely here with me in this moment. "What?" I ask as gently as I can, hoping to mask my fear and worry.

"Was that real, back there?" he asks, his forehead scrunched up in deep concentration.

My heart starts hammering for a different reason this time. I know the answer he needs to hear, but I don't know if I can truthfully give it to him. I feel myself pulled to him as if by some force of gravity, but I'm still working out what it all means. Do I love him, the way he loves me? The way he's always loved me? Or do I just seek comfort in his touch, in being able to be with someone after being by myself for so long? I don't know. I'm not even convinced it was real for him.

"Real or not real, Katniss?" he presses, his voice growing agitated. This is how it starts. This is the tipping point, where his eyes grow wild and I lose a part of him to Snow and the Capitol. No matter how hard we try, no matter how hard we fight, we can't seem to escape this part of his past. Not entirely.

"I don't know." My voice cracks as I admit it, but I can't lie to him. I won't, because it will just break him in a different way.

His hand smacks his temple and my gut twists. I reach forward, catching his hand and pulling it away before he can start in on a pattern. I've seen this before, and I can't take it tonight. "When we kiss at home and in the bakery, that's real. That's you and that's me. That's us," I promise. "What just happened out there, in front of all those people? That was still us and still our feelings. But I don't know if it was real, not the way it should be."

His hand clenches in a fist inside of mine, the muscles in his arm tightening. Dragging his hand up, I set it against my chest, now highly aware of just how low cut the neckline is. My fingers work his to pull his fist apart as I guide his palm to settle over my heart. As his fingers splay out, I hold his hand firmly in place so he can feel my heart pounding beneath it. "This is real," I tell him. "You make this happen. You do this to me. Whether I like it or not," I add with a small puff of a laugh.

"I can't stand it here," he says, his words muted and his tone flat. "Everything here reminds me of... everything. I can't breathe."

"Then don't be here. Be here, with me."

"I don't know if I can." His hand moves up to my throat and for one terrifying moment, I wonder if he's about to strangle me. This place holds terrible memories for me too, even if they happened in other districts. The root of the evil is buried deep here, and there's no escaping it.

He steps into me, his head dropping to my shoulder. His entire body sags against me. I wrap my arms around him for support.

When he starts to cry, I let gravity take us. We sink to our knees so I can bare his weight. I can't think of anything to say, so I remain silent. I want to tell him I love him. The urge is so strong and yet I can't. I still don't know what the word really means. I don't know if it would be true. It'll only comfort him if I mean it, and I'm not sure if I would.

But I want to bear the weight of his pain. I know that much. I want to take all that pain that he suffers because of me, because of what Snow did to him to get to me. I want to absorb it all and release him of everything. But I don't know how. So I hold on to him for dear life until he can stand on his own again.


	45. Departing Gift

Effie does her best to try to convince us to stay, but I am rooted in my resolve to board the first train out in the morning. My exhaustion does not improve my mood, nor does the endless loop of the video of Peeta and me kissing on every single Capitol feed. I have officially had enough of the Capitol's hospitality, and it is past time we head home.

"That simply will not do!" Effie protests in shock as I make the announcement at breakfast. Peeta has managed to drag himself out of bed, but his head is flat against the table. I am having a hard time ignoring Haymitch's judgmental stare, so I look down at my own plate. It's not my fault Peeta got drunk last night. I had not been the one who suggested a late night snack since we skipped all the food at the ball. And I certainly had not been the one to carry the massive bottle of wine back into the bedroom with the rest of the food. Though I probably could have put up a bigger protest and advised against us drinking the whole thing.

"We have two more days of events scheduled, with hardly a moment to be spared in between. You cannot simply leave." She sounds as appalled as Haymitch looks, though for a very different reason.

I cannot stand Haymitch's stares any longer. "Enough!" I shout, slamming my fork against the table and causing Peeta to groan at the sound. Meeting Haymitch's eyes, I dare him to say something. To do anything besides his cowardly glares. He, of all people, has no room to judge.

Effie, thinking I'm talking to her, gasps and shrinks back into her chair. I let out my own groan, instantly apologizing. I wasn't as drunk as Peeta, but I definitely helped him finish off the bottle last night, and my nerves are completely shot from this entire ordeal. "I'm sorry, Effie. Really, I am. But Peeta isn't feeling well," Haymitch snickers at this but I power on, "and we've had enough of the festivities." I try to work up an excuse as to why. "We've gotten so used to the quiet, simple life back home," because that's all District Twelve will ever symbolize for most people, "and the back to back events have drained us completely." It's feeble at best, but I can tell I rattled her with my shout.

She still isn't happy about the decision, but she simmers silently in her chair as we continue to eat. Peeta doesn't even bother to lift his head to shovel food into his mouth, though I would bet that the food might help relieve his aching head. Haymitch certainly likes to pound down as much as possible the morning after one of his escapades.

Tension fills the remainder of our visit. As we finish our meal, Peeta's plate still untouched, Effie hesitates before mentioning the sea of activities we are supposed to participate in today. Grinding my teeth together and locking my jaw, I force myself to count as the good old doctor taught me. I make a few more excuses as I push my chair back from the table.

Really, just one look at Peeta ought to prove my point. He hasn't said a word all morning except for the occasional groan. I wonder if he even remembers what happened last night, or if everything became a blur the more he drank. I almost hope it has, especially since he has been too hungover to witness the spectacle playing over and over in the newsfeeds. Somehow, I think for a moment, we might just be able to throw the entire incident behind us and pretend it never happened. In Peeta's head, it might just be the case. I'm torn on if I want that or not. To go on pretending that there is nothing there between us, to ignore it when it rears its head. Might be easier that talking about it, since we can't seem to do that either.

Leaning over him, I gently shake his shoulders in an attempt to rouse him from his seat. I get a half moan in return. "Come on Peeta," I try with a little more authority and a little harder of a shake. I know he feels miserable. I had that one time, when I drank myself stupid and passed out in one of the abandoned houses in the Village. His head feels like a train is running full speed across it, and the motion of the actual train we are going to board soon is only going to make it worse. But he needs to get out of here, now. He won't last another day, not when the alcohol wears off and he becomes aware of his surroundings again. I think it'll only hit him harder the second time around.

"Time to pack," I tell his as I maneuver my arms up under his armpits and try to pull him from his chair. He is a dead weight in my arms, refusing to help me for even a second. I beg Haymitch for help with my eyes, but he is entirely satisfied in leaning back in his chair, sipping his coffee and smirking while I struggle.

I'm grunting more than Peeta is groaning now, and it feels like a futile effort. Without a hint of willpower from him, I won't be able to move him an inch from this chair, much less carry him down the hallway to collect our things. I finally concede, letting his forehead drop back onto the table softly. All the muscles in his body relax as he sags against the table.

Haymitch whistles at the spectacle. "You're trying to kill that boy," he comments.

"I'm not the one who brought him here." I'm livid at Haymitch for his insistence that we come, and I make no attempt to mask it. I'm so fed up with his self-centeredness and his utter lack of empathy. I understand it towards me, and that's fine. But Peeta has been nothing but civil to Haymitch the entire time we've been thrown together, and this is how Haymitch repays him. Fine. We'll see who helps Haymitch through his next binge and purge. It sure as hell won't be me.

I pack all of our belongings myself, making no effort to separate them. Instead, I throw them all into one bag. When it is full, I move to the second and shove things in mindlessly until everything is collected. I will worry about sorting through them later. Right now, I cannot get out of this place fast enough. Peeta can wear his sleep garments on the train for all I care. We're already plastered all over the newsfeeds for something much more personal and embarrassing, and it's not like he's going to remember anyway.

Slinging one bag over each shoulder, I don't bother to double check if I have everything. There is nothing I brought here that I couldn't easily replace without a hint of emotional attachment. Lugging both bags, I return to the table and wonder how the hell I'm going to get Peeta to the station as well. Upon entering the room again, I see that Haymitch has finally come to his senses and taken pity on Peeta. Peeta's head is drooping, his blond hair covering his face, but Haymitch has Peeta supported on one side and has gotten him up into a standing position.

Effie, too angry at me to see us to the station, says her goodbyes at the elevator door. Haymitch hands Peeta over to me for a moment, and I have to drop both bags and lean heavily against the wall of the elevator to support him. As Haymitch leans in close and whispers something into Effie's ear, I almost drop him in shock. I cannot hear what Haymitch says, but from the way Effie's cheeks are coloring under the heavy layer of white makeup, it must have been something.

When Effie leans in and kisses the corner of his mouth, my legs almost give out. When did this develop? We've barely seen Effie over the past year. But as I think back to Haymitch's fierce objections to us skipping the festivities, and his impromptu trip to the Capitol during the fall, it sort of makes sense. Especially when coupled with the fact that I can't remember the last time I saw Haymitch drinking. He hasn't touched a glass of alcohol since we arrived, and he hasn't been drinking at home either.

Well, color me surprised. I guess the bastard has something left in his heart after all. I just never thought it could be directed toward someone from the Capitol. Not after everything they have done to us. Though, I have to admit, Effie has been kinder to us than most, even as she prepped us for the slaughter.

Still, it's weird to even consider the fact that Peeta and I were probably not the only ones sneaking in and out of each other's rooms since our arrival. Just the mere thought of it turns my stomach, and I am thankful when Haymitch joins us in the elevator to take Peeta back. I have a hard enough time trying to picture my own love life. I don't need to be imagining the details of others'. As the doors mercifully slide shut, I think that this trip cannot be over soon enough.


	46. A New Year

It feels like I have literally just gotten home when the phone rings. My mind, perhaps illogically, jumps to Gale. Part of me yearns to pick up and find out. If for no other reason than to repeat what Haymitch told him in the training center. I want to think that he would call and apologize for the things that he said, though he couldn't possibly know I heard. More than that, I want him to plead for my forgiveness, to tell me he has been a fool to act the way he has and for the decisions he made during the war.

Peeta is still shaking his coat off in the doorway when the trill of the phone pierces the silent air. Snowflakes dance to the floor of my foyer as he hangs up his coat and shuts the front door, closing the cocoon of protection around us while all the while suffering from a massive headache, a reminder of the lingering hangover he hasn't been able to shake all day. He must see my face and read my look. When I don't answer the phone he decides to answer it for me, something he has never done before. I'm not entirely certain he's conscious of the decision.

"Hello?" he asks, his voice calm and collected. If it is Gale on the other end of the line, I doubt he'll stay that way.

Glancing up from the side table, he mouths the word 'Effie' as he continues to listen, squinting from the loudness of her voice as he attempts to lower the volume of the receiver.

My heart both sinks with disappointment and swells with relief at the same time. In truth, it wouldn't matter if Gale calls. I'm not even sure why my mind ventures to him now. It doesn't matter what he would try to say. He could apologize until he is blue in the face but as I sink into the comfort of my exorbitant couch, I know there is no coming back from my trip to District Two coupled with the exchange I overhead with Haymitch. And if there had been a ray of hope left after that, seeing him at the dance with a Katniss lookalike clinging to his side had been the final nail in the coffin. We have built a wall between us over the past year and for good reason. I have tried to knock on the wall, per Peeta's request, as Gale has from the other side as well. Instead of working through the barrier, I have barreled through it at full steam and have kept on charging.

As Peeta talks to Effie, I realize I'm finally done. Especially after that kiss in the Capitol with Peeta. I want to move on and stop looking back. Even if Gale tries to apologize for what he has said and, more importantly, what he has done - and I doubt he ever will - I wouldn't believe him. The tone in his voice had been so sure and just so... Gale. He had meant every word, and there is no getting over that. And even in the slimmest chance that I could, I study Peeta now and I know it wouldn't even matter. Even Peeta at his lowest point, still grappling with his hangover and misery and suffering, offers a possibility I think I'm determined to explore.

"Katniss." Peeta's gentle prodding breaks me from my thoughts and I glance up. He hasn't said a word since he woke up this morning. When I simply stare at him, he realizes I have no idea what he said to me, if anything. Patiently he repeats the question, "Did Haymitch mention to you that President Paylor requested that we return to the Capitol to ring in the new year? They are planning on holding a celebration to mark the first full year of freedom in Panem for all." I can tell he is reciting, verbatim, Effie's words and that's he's having a bit of difficulty remembering the whole thing. "Effie's calling because we are on the guest list, but we are clearly not there."

A million complaints spring to mind instantly. We have just been to the Capitol for the anniversary of the end of the war. Even though we didn't stay for the whole thing, we stayed long enough. Have we not paraded around enough for their amusement? Have we not been good little puppets, apart from our early departure? When, exactly, had Effie planned on mentioning this part of the agenda? Why wait until we return to District Twelve instead of just telling us the reason they wanted us to stay while we were still there? Though perhaps I understand the last part. It's not like it would have changed my mind in the slightest.

Even in his less than stellar situation, Peeta can read me before I sputter out a word. "The message must have gotten crossed somewhere, I'm afraid," he tells Effie regrettably. To his credit, he makes it sound as if his words are in earnest; so much so, in fact, that I have to wonder if he actually does, though the idea seems absurd based on what's happened in the past few days. "We just returned an hour or so ago, and neither one of us..." he is cut off or trails off, I'm not sure. "A little better, thanks for asking, but not quite back to one hundred percent I'm afraid." A pause. "Of course," he says as I grab the blanket, the one that reminds me so much of home, from the back of the couch and drape it over my legs. Folding my legs up and tucking my feet under me, I wait as Peeta continues to ensure Effie how sorry we are that we left before we could attend.

My eyes wander briefly, but it doesn't take long for them to land on the mantel above the fireplace. The locket sits innocently though I don't remember putting it there. It feels like ages have passed since Peeta handed it to me in the arena, and I guess in certain ways it has been. I don't have to look at the pictures to recall them. I have committed them to memory. My heart aches at the sight. I have lost all of them in one way or another. The irony never fails to strike me deeply.

I'm not aware of Peeta ending the conversation, but suddenly he is sliding onto the couch next to me. I reposition myself to give him more space.

"I'm sorry about the wine last night," I tell him as he spreads the blanket out to cover himself as well. Buttercup eyes us from his spot on the rug but makes no move to join us for which I am eternally grateful. He's probably just put out that we're already back and disrupting his peace and quiet. The two of us have come to an understanding, but we certainly aren't the best of friends by anyone's standards.

"Do I even want to know what happened with Effie this morning?" he asks softly, his arm stretching along the back of the couch while his fingers pick at the fabric.

"It wasn't good," I answer with a dry laugh. While he plucks at the couch, I toy with the end of my braid, so much shorter than it used to be but starting to grow back out. "How much do you even remember from yesterday evening?" Suddenly, I can't meet his gaze any longer. My eyes drop to stare at where my knees rest just an inch away from brushing against his. I muse at how we can be so close in proximity and yet feel so distant sometimes, even when alcohol isn't involved. It's my fault, of course. I put that distance there, intentionally or not, and now sometimes it feels impossible to close the gap.

"Not much," he admits as he massages his temple and reaches for the glass of water I'd grabbed from the kitchen just as the phone began to ring. "I remember showing up at the event. Seeing you in that dress, and then seeing Gale with his girlfriend. And then it goes a bit hazy, and I remember you kissing me." I can tell from the way he lays out the events the way he is piecing it together. He's making connections that I don't want, that lead to presumptions that aren't true.

"That's not why I kissed you, Peeta."

A beat. Then two. "Then why, Katniss? To snap me back to reality so I didn't have a breakdown in public?"

There it is. I'm not sure if I expected it this time or not, but it isn't unreasonable. We have been playing this little dance for a while now, and even I am tired of it. It's a pity, almost, that my mandated therapy sessions are over and I can't ring my shrink to pick his brain.

"I don't know," I tell him. It's the truth but it's only half of it, if even that. "I saw you get that look in your eye," I start, not even sure myself where I'm leading the conversation, "and even then, you represented everything that Gale wasn't. You were safe and inviting and warm. Even though you were about to fall apart, you were still the strongest person in that entire room. But it's more than that, too. We keep saying how we need to learn to move on with our lives, but the relationship between us, our relationship, is stuck."

"So since the last bit of hope you've been holding out for Gale is officially dead and I'm weak and vulnerable at the moment, you want to try to move forward with me?"

"No," I answer, perhaps a bit too quickly. "That's not... that's what I said, okay, I realize that now, but that's not what I mean. I don't want this to be about Gale. It isn't about Gale," I insist. "I just..." I sigh, deeply, and let out something between a nervous laugh and a strangled cry. "I don't know how to do this with you, Peeta. I have never known how to do this. At least before, in the arena, I felt like I could tell what Haymitch wanted us to do. And with Snow, it was even more direct in what was expected of us."

I finally meet his eye but can't read his expression. "Now it's just you and me, and I don't know where to start or even how. And I know it doesn't seem real coming from me now. But while I was at Gale's house, and even before, I realized that he would never treat me the same way that you do. He and I are like birds in the same tree. It worked when we were fighting together to survive, but at some point it turned into fighting against each other. And yes, maybe it took Gale to see that, but it showed me how well we – you and I - work together. It didn't drive me to just pick you as an alternative." I stop talking. I've already rambled on and on, and I know I'm not saying any of it right. If anything, my nonsense has probably been convincing him that he's right and that he is my backup plan. I never know how to say the mess in my mind.

"You're cold," is all he says. Then he stands and moves to the fireplace. I can do nothing but stare at his back as he adds wood to the stack and lights a fire. He disappears into the kitchen as the flames flicker to life, but I can't move. Is this truly how it is going to be between us? Me, trying to convince him of I don't even know what and him not believing me? Things had been easier when I had been pretending, before he had realized it. It is a lot scarier being on the other side of the equation, no longer pretending and not sure where that leaves me standing.

He returns after a moment with two steaming mugs of hot chocolate. One of the only perks of being in the Hunger Games and traveling to the Capitol is that we found such a delicious treat. And that we have an insane personal wealth to spend on such frivolous treats. After handing me one, he grabs a throw pillow from the couch and moves to sit before the fire. My fingers grip the handle so tightly they start to pale in color.

"It's warmer down here," he says. I take it as an invitation to join him. Bringing the blanket with me I position myself beside him, opposite the fire. I test the temperature of my hot chocolate, but it burns my tongue. Setting it down on the edge of the coffee table to cool, I bring my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them.

"So what happens," he asks, his attention fixed on the fireplace, "when you and Gale make up? I know you don't believe it will ever happen but I also know you, Katniss. And I know him, better than I wish to. It might not be right away or it might not be for years, but one day you two will learn to navigate this wall between you. What happens then?"

It's eerie, seeing a vulnerable side of Peeta. I'm the one who's supposed to be unsure and insecure. "I don't know," I tell him honestly. "I don't know what happens then because I don't know where we'll be. Maybe by then, you'll have already figured out that I'm broken and beyond saving. That they can fix my skin on the surface, but that doesn't fix me. Maybe by then, you'll have met someone sweet and kind and deserving of you, and you'll be spending your days teaching her how to decorate cakes in your bakery. Maybe I'll be a drunk and hanging out with Haymitch all the time. But I can promise you that it won't matter. Should hell freeze and Gale and I miraculously find a way to be friends again - which will never happen - I'm never going to feel that way for Gale. There was the possibility, before, but not now."

"You're not broken," he says as he turns his head to face me. His eyes are soft, and the fire makes all of his features bright. "And even if you were, you'd never be beyond saving. You are the strongest person I know, and you never give up. Not even on yourself."

"I want to deserve you," I confess. It's the hardest truth I had ever spoken to him, and it leaves a surprising emptiness inside me knowing I've revealed it aloud. "I don't want you to wake up one day and realize I was never worth all this time you've wasted on me. I want to be worth it."

"You've been spending too much time with Haymitch," he laughs, but it's gentle and not demeaning in the slightest the way Haymitch would laugh. Or Gale, or pretty much anyone else I know, including myself. "I already told you, it's always been you. It will always be you. You've always underestimated yourself and have been self-depreciating, but I'll never believe you aren't worth the fight."

"So what happens when Gale and I make up?" I ask, mimicking his earlier question.

"Then I beat him over the head with my prosthetic leg until he is no longer a threat."

I can't help but laugh, a real laugh, thankful he's found a way to break the tension. "I don't know if this is going to work," I admit. "I'm pretty sure I'll find a way, multiple ways in fact, to screw it up. I have a knack for doing just that."

"We won't know until we try," he reasons.

I can't tell who leans in first or who closes that last small gap between us. While the fire and the blanket shelter me from the cold, they are no longer what keeps me warm. The warmth starts at my lips before traveling across my cheek and down my neck as Peeta leaves a trail of kisses. It is an exploration of an entire new territory. My toes curl from the sensation.

Knowing that Peeta won't pull away this time citing our previously broken record gives me the courage to turn my head and find his lips with mine. Our lips meet and after only a moment's hesitation part. Our tongues dance, and it becomes harder and harder to not just think clearly but to think at all.

That forbidden fire returns within me. For the first time it doesn't disappear. Instead of extinguishing the fire, we feed it. We explore where we have never been before, and I take comfort in the fact that I know we are exploring it for the first time together.

It becomes a night of starts and stops, endings and beginnings. We break apart to eat and for Peeta to turn on the Capitol feed for the celebration we are supposed to be attending. We break apart again later when I think my lungs will explode from the lack of oxygen. The combination of warmth between the fire and Peeta leaves me breathless and exhausted. I must have dozed off for a while at some point because he wakes me up with a gentle nudge of my shoulder. It is a few minutes before midnight, and we watch as Caesar Flickerman parades the celebration for all of Panem to see.

When the countdown reaches zero and the clock strikes midnight, we both lean in to each other. Though the kiss is soft and light, there's a promise of something more. "To a new year," Peeta whispers, pulling back just the slightest. His breath tickles my face. I have no idea what Effie had planned for the day, but I'm certain it wouldn't have come close to this. I can't imagine anything better than this moment, right here and now.

I am so consumed with the changes in the evening that I can only nod. He closes the distance again, and I smile against his lips. Then his hands slide up my sides, and I let myself go to get lost in his touch.


	47. Wishing

It takes me far too long to visit the local apothecary one day while Peeta is busy at the bakery. We haven't talked about the reason for this particular visit - Peeta being the gentleman that he is - but I know it's the next logical step. At some point. Though I realize, thanks to my modesty and prudishness as others so often point out to me, the next step in our relationship is still a long way off. I also know, though I have no experience of my own to judge, that it's not something we'll plan ahead. I am very quickly learning I have little to no control over the way my body reacts to Peeta. Even just a hint of a smile has the potential of eliciting feelings in me I never thought possible.

So I have to be prepared. I have to be ready for whenever the time may come. But that doesn't mean I'm ready to face the reality of what this decision entails. I walk around the town square, wandering aimlessly as I work up the courage to enter the apothecary. My feet drag in molasses the entire time. It's completely absurd, of course. The entire country thinks we're married and that I've had a miscarriage in the past. But I can't get over the fact myself. I can't gather myself to go in there, to have someone watch me as I select the herbs. We live in a small town and the options are limited. Everyone will know the purpose the herbs serve. To me, this relationship – or whatever it is between us – is still too new to share no matter what people might already believe.

My strict aversion to displaying our relationship publicly is stupid of course. Peeta reminds me with a laugh every time I step away from him and release his hand when we spot someone off in the distance. It's irrational, makes absolutely no sense. And yet… And yet.

With a deep breath and a surge of courage I don't entirely embrace, I push through the front door into the warm shop. The heavy smell of incense smacks me hard as the tiny bell above the door chimes. Already I feel like every eye in the small room turns to look at me. Though they all immediately go back to whatever they were doing a moment before, now I think they must be wondering about me. Guessing what I'm doing, why I'm here. Peeta would call me a narcissist and tell me I'm not so interesting. I would remind him I never thought I was interesting, and yet the Capitol used to be glued to the feeds watching us.

But Peeta isn't here to weigh in with his opinion. I would die of embarrassment before I told Peeta what I am doing here. I know we're going to have to talk about it someday. It's not a conversation one can exactly just skip over. But not today. Not even for a while. And certainly not without copious amount of liquor in my system.

I walk through the tight aisles, picking up random things here and there. I pretend to study the glass bottles and the handwritten labels. I'm a total idiot. I wait. I agonize while I wait. When I think no one is looking, I swipe the herbs I need and hurry to the counter. My feet have never moved so fast, the toes of one foot colliding with the heel of my other. I whip my coin purse out before she can start on small talk. I push far more coins than it's sure to cost at her and tell her to keep the rest, that I'm sure I'll need something else later. Before she can reply, I collect the bottle of herbs back up off the counter and shove it as deep into the pocket of my jacket as it will go. I almost punch through the bottom of the fabric with the force of my haste.

Turning to leave, every muscle in my body freezes at the sight of the person standing directly behind me. My heart is going to explode from my chest. I am going to faint and smack my head on the counter and bleed to death. Or I'm going to die of embarrassment. I cannot decide which one is preferable. Did she see what I grabbed? Why do I even care? I shouldn't. I need to get out of here before I vomit.

"Hazelle," I say, the name rough on my throat with false calm. She stands between me and the door, and she's making no inclination of moving. My stomach turns and I feel my breakfast fighting its way back up through my stomach.

"Katniss," she replies fair more cheerful than my own greeting. Her eyes dart down to my pocket before rising back up. She knows. She saw, somehow. I was careless. Her hand reaches out and touches my wrist, the one attached to the hand still fearfully clutching the herbs in my pocket. "Good to see you, dear. We all miss you around the house. You should come visit sometime. You and Peeta, of course." I nod the entire time she's talking, my head a bob in a steady wind, right up until she mentions Peeta.

My head stills halfway up to staring at the ceiling. I cast a futile look towards the door, but I'm no closer to my escape than I was a moment ago. "The kids would love to see you," she adds. After a brief pause, she continues, "I've always seen you as a daughter. And not solely because I hoped that perhaps one day you would marry Gale." A punch to the gut, hard and swift. "I'm sorry I wasn't more of a mother to you, especially since your own mother struggled so hard for so long. No child should have to carry the burdens of their parents. But you and Gale did that. I should have taken better care of you. Both of you."

Up until this point, we have worked tirelessly to keep Gale out of our conversations. Hazelle because of the pain that accompanies the thought of her distant son, I because of embarrassment and sympathy. But as she talks, I can tell how much she misses Gale. How much his move to District Two feels like abandonment and how she struggles to carry the weight of her guilt. I wasn't the only one Gale left behind. Unlike my mother, he left his entire family. "You had more than enough on your plate," I tell her; it's the truth. "You had kids of your own and your own struggle to make ends meet. But you tried." Unlike my mother, I don't add aloud. "I didn't realize it when I was younger, but I certainly appreciate it now."

She pats my cheek and I'm no longer embarrassed about being caught here with these herbs not so subtly stuffed in my pocket. Hazelle has never once been judgmental of me. Her hand rises and she pats my cheek. "I'm glad you were able to find someone that makes you happy. Who gives you the life you deserve." Her hand rests a moment before she pulls away. Even Hazelle knows in the end Gale and I would have burst into a brilliant disaster. The Girl on Fire would have left a smoldering pile of ash in her wake, and I would have escaped no better myself. "I hope Gale will find the kind of happiness you have for himself. If he ever stops working long enough to meet a girl."

I want to mention that he already has. But broaching the topic will only lead to further questions, and none of those are ones I want to answer. Though I find it odd that Gale tells my mother these things but not his own. Maybe his relationship with Hazelle is more estranged than I thought. Maybe I was a bit hypocritical, since I'm now spending more time talking to his mother than I do my own.

We chat a little while longer. Then, sensing my urge to flee, Hazelle says her goodbye as she reminds me to come by and visit anytime I like. As a parting gift, she also shares a bit of wisdom. "Try putting the herbs in tea to help mask the bitterness."

Mortified, I finally make my escape, ducking my head and heading straight back to the house.


	48. Town Square (Spring)

We gather in the town square. It isn't mandated, but it seems like the thing to do. Viewing isn't required in each household, but almost everyone in town bands together in unspoken unity. Even Haymitch has joined the gathered crowd, though he consciously stands on the outskirts looking in. When Peeta slips his hand into mine, I don't pull away. Instead, I wrap an arm around his waist and casually lean into his side. I'm trying to get better with displaying affection in public, though it's still hard. Peeta appreciates the attempt and slides his arm around my shoulders.

It's funny, how easy it seems to be with him now. Sometimes I wonder why I ever hesitated in the first place. But of course I know, for even now I have moments of uncertainty. Darkness settles over me and I tell myself we can't possibly last for the long haul. Most of the time, I can ignore the nagging voice and just let myself be happy.

Though no one polices where we stand, no ushering of the crowd into specific confined corrals, people migrate into groups. The children gather together towards the back of the square. With no interest in what's happening on the screen, they busy themselves with animated chatter and laughter. The sexes aren't segregated, but small groups form. The girls gather to one side while the boys stay on the other.

The process feels familiar, but the atmosphere could not differ more from Reaping Day. Kids bubble over with excitement, glad for any excuse not to go to school for the day. Even the adults are chatting away in their own groups. The worried faces of desperate parents no longer fill the square. If anything, an air of anticipation surrounds us all. It's much more comfortable than dread.

As the elections begin, a calm quiet settles over the gathered crowd. I have a strange indifference to it all, but I know Peeta is interested in the outcome. While Paylor still has another year before she is up for reelection, the country is starting to form the rest of the government with today's proceedings. Together as one, we step in a new direction; we're all anxious to see the results. While I had preferred never to gather in the square again, these elections carry none of the spite still waging inside me over the alternative.

A chill runs through me in the cool spring afternoon. Peeta pulls me closer into his side as he rests his cheek against my head. An audible yawn reminds me he woke up early for the pre-elections rush in the bakery before the entire town shut down. I'd risen in the middle of the night, for once from a dream instead of a nightmare, and he had already slipped away to his toils. I imagine it'll be an early night tonight for us both. I'd gone out into the woods before sunrise to try to bag a few squirrels for supper. Greasy Sae offered to cook our weekly dinner with Haymitch tonight. I suspect she's looking for an excuse for us to see her and her granddaughter, and for us to unload a few coins onto her. Both sound good to me.

The elections carry the typical pomp and circumstance of everything relating to the Capitol, but everything about the situation feels serious. Ironically, it feels more serious in the Capitol than when they were sending twenty-three kids to their deaths. I guess they're worried about their comfort of living in their cushy homes in the Capitol. Heaven forbid they have to work a day in their lives.

I do wonder how that's shaking out in the Capitol and in the other districts closer to the Capitol. No one in Twelve is a stranger to a hard day's work, not even those who lived comparatively comfortable lives. But many in the Capitol, One, and Two were used to certain comforts under Snow's reign. We didn't get a chance while in the Capitol to see how the new reality was settling in, and it was the furthest thing from my mind when visiting Gale in Two.

Even if they are earning their keep now, it hasn't affected their sense of style. Almost everyone native to the Capitol looks utterly ridiculous. Even most of the hopefuls from the Districts running for a seated position dressed to fit into the local customs of bright colors and outlandish designs. Seeing all the different types of style both entertains and sickens me a little. It's hard to associate anything to do with the Capitol with anything other than contempt.

We stay standing in the town square for almost the entire day while ballots are counted and the prevailing governmental officials are announced. Actual voting took place a few weeks ago. Even that had felt a bit like the Reaping. We'd lined up single file in front of rows of Capitol officials. When we reached the table, they'd ask our name, flip through the books, prick our fingers, verify our identity, then give us a ballot. They ushered us to small tables spread through the square, where each citizen went and cast their ballot. Once finished, we'd placed them into a closed, secured box and returned to our normal activities.

The ballots went back to the Capitol on the train, collected in each District. The whole process should have filled me with excitement, but I couldn't muster much emotion of any kind. I felt numb the entire time, just as I do now. Disassociated from everything around me, I wonder if it even matters. Will we ever be able to change who we are at the core of our humanity? Or is this just the calm in between the storms before history repeats itself?

We are all corruptible. I killed people whose names I didn't even know. In the Arenas and during the War. Gale plotted the demise of children for the so called greater good. And even Peeta, sweet, innocent Peeta, plotted and schemed with the worst of them in the Arena in order to help protect me. A darkness dwells in each and every one of us. If I've learned anything it's that it doesn't take much to tip the scale and draw it out. Once that happens, there is no going back. It's all madness from there.

"Why so gloom and doom?" Peeta asks me as if reading my mind.

I shake my head, knowing I won't be able to explain the mess of thoughts running through it. My pessimism isn't something I like to dump on Peeta, so I bottle it up inside and force it down. With a smile that is almost heartfelt, I focus my attention on the large screen in the square. I try to memorize the names as the positions are announced and the new officials declared. There is a smattering of applause here and there for various candidates, most likely family or friends or friends of friends. Gale wins a seat as a delegate for District Two and the crowd roars in approval. I guess not everyone feels as abandoned as Hazelle and I.

The crowd stays throughout the entire broadcast, though we start to grow restless towards the end. As the screen grows dark, people instantly start to file out. Peeta's hand lowers to my waist and I feel his lips press against my temple as he regrettably pulls away. I know what it means before he says it. It is his sweet goodbye, the first sign that he is going back to the bakery instead of the house with me.

"I should head back," he says on cue. "There ought to be a crowd milling around the square, and I barely have any reserves from this morning."

I want to tell him to bunk off anyway. To let them fend for themselves for once. But I know standing in the square all day has not been the easiest thing for Peeta either, and the bakery is his best form of escape. So I stop myself from being selfish and keep my pleas to myself. Making a non-committal noise, I almost offer to help out. But the bakery will be busy and I'll only serve as a distraction. It's better if I don't even put the suggestion out there.

"We'll wait for you for dinner," I tell him as we begin to pull apart.

"Haymitch," Peeta says, remembering what day of the week it is. It sounds almost like a curse. "You can go ahead and eat without me tonight if you want." I would rather drive a stake through my hand than suffer through dinner tonight with Haymitch alone. "There is no telling how late I'm going to be."

"We'll wait," I insist with a smile.

"Right." His eyebrows do a quick raise as he calls me out on my cowardliness. "I'll try to close as quickly as I can then."

"No rush," I lie.

"For the safety of everyone," he insists. Then it's a final kiss, and we're being pulled apart in opposite directions with the natural flow of the crowd dispersing.


	49. Mockingjay

It's a while before Peeta takes a much deserved and much needed day away from the bakery. No matter how many other stores open up in town, the bakery keeps a loyal patronage. Everyone says it's because of the quality of the food. Though Peeta is undoubtedly talented and his treats so delectable they melt on your tongue, I have a suspicion this isn't the entire reason. I suspect the female patrons care more about the ambiance that Peeta's presence brings and less about the taste of their bread. And most of the others simply like meeting and gossiping and being close to one of the victors of the Games and the war.

Either way, he's thankful for the business. His customers busy him with a constant stream of obligations. I hardly see him during the spring which is becoming his busiest season of the year. But I'm grateful he has this distraction. I grew tired of the morbid paintings littering the floors and walls of both our houses. The bakery is a much healthier means of escape for both of us. I'm sure our old friend Dr. Aurelius would agree.

When Peeta declares a day off during the peak of spring, I almost protest. I've fallen into this routine of ours and a break in it seems like a bad omen. I enjoy the time we spend apart, him in the bakery and I in the woods. It gives significance to the time we spend together, even if we are doing something as benign as Peeta attempting to teach me to bake and failing miserably. But when the day comes, I'm ready for a day out of town as much as he is, as well as a rest from hunting. Deer are becoming weary of the woods again now that I've returned to hunting. I spend most of my days setting and checking snares. The days are monotonous and tiring, and some mornings it's difficult to force myself to make the trek outside of town alone.

So I relent and grab the crude fishing poles I made over the winter while the snow had me trapped inside the house. We stuff ourselves with breakfast which makes the walk out to the lake agonizing. We don't bother with a picnic or a blanket or any of the normal things we bring with us. It's just us and the fishing poles and a wicker basket in case we catch anything worth keeping.

It's a perfect day to be outside, sitting on the shore of the lake instead of mucking through the undergrowth of the trees. Perched on the large rock, we have our lines dipped in the water but we aren't worried about catching anything. We have more than enough food as it is, and I don't look forward to the prospect of having to gut and scale the fish. I'm not even sure there are any fish in the lake.

Lying back, I let my spine follow the curvature of the rock, stretching my neck as I bend. The weather is perfect and I contemplate closing my eyes and drifting off to sleep. But the possibility of nightmares keeps me awake. As it is, I already have more than enough memories that I can associate with aspects of the lake. There's no point enticing more to follow. It's one of the few places I can still enjoy myself and feel free.

The soft twittering is deceptive at first. So gentle, I think it's just a figment of my imagination, filling in the silence with noise. As the sound continues to flint in and out of my ears, I turn my head to squint at Peeta. His lips are closed, and he's as silent as the night. I try to track the sound but it seems to move. I turn my focus to the trees, and finally I spot it.

It's too far away to be able to distinguish much, but it's definitely a mockingjay. I can't remember the last time I saw one. Actually, I can. In the arena. Singing with Rue. Carrying the little tune that signals the end of the work day. I wonder if they still use that in Eight, or if the tradition has been replaced. I hope not. I hope it carries on, taking Rue's spirit with it.

Then I remember that isn't right. We saw them when we came back to Twelve with the camera crew. When Gale took them on the tour of town, and they had me sing. This memory is almost as painful as the other because it reminds me of Gale and the kiss and how we'd been able to just sit and talk that day. The tension had still been there, but we'd been able to connect at least. Unlike now, as the bridge burns and the chasm grows wider and wider each time we come to pass.

I don't think much of the mockingjay until others start to join it. They must not be used to seeing people out here in the woods. Our presence fascinates them. They circle overhead, hopping between branches. A few even fly lower overhead as if scoping us out.

Peeta seems oblivious, so I inch over to nudge his shoulder and point to the nearest one. There must be at least a dozen or so of them gathered in the trees around the lake now but they shy away from the clearing. Probably for the best. Their history with humans has not been kind.

It's funny, but seeing the mockingjays now feels different. They still bring back painful memories. I think they always will. But as I watch them, I don't think of them as my symbol for the resistance. I don't see them and picture myself as the Mockingjay. If anything, I look at them and I visualize my father. I remember the way he used to sing and how it mesmerized them. How they could pick up his simple tune and carry it to the skies.

It will never be the same, I realize. No matter how many times I sing to them, I'll never compare to my father. He could have brought peace to the world with his voice, if only it hadn't been oppressed by the outlaw of the songs and the soot from the mines. Even this place will never be quite the same now that he's gone. It's been years, but nothing seems to change, except that now I have Peeta here with me.

Sitting up, I turn to face him. His blonde hair looks almost white in the sun's rays, and his eyes shine bright outdoors. He's striking, plain and simple. He leans into me, and I lean into him. Without a word, we gravitate toward each other under the chatter of the mockingjays. He doesn't have to know my thoughts to know I need an escape from my head. The ghosts will always be there, but he can quiet them without a word. It only takes a touch. As his lips press to mine, the thoughts drift away.

I didn't bring him out here for privacy. We have two giant houses back in the Victors' Village for that. I come for the peace and the quiet, to escape from the routine of our lives. As his tongue slides into my mouth and flicks across mine, I almost push him away. It feels a bit wrong, as if we are defiling this sacred space from my childhood. Then I remember the instance in the lake. If it could be defiled, we've probably already done the damage. So I pull him to me, closing the gap between us. Descending into bliss, I catch the sweet tunes from the mockingjays watching overhead before I shut out the world completely, save for Peeta.


	50. A Happy Story

Patience and attention to detail are two skills paramount to baking. I possess neither. While I can sit all day in a tree awaiting my prey, I don't have the stomach to sit around the bakery for hours at a time waiting for a batch of dough to rise or for a loaf of bread to cook. It's infuriating, the amount of time that goes into baking. What makes it even worse is the ease with which Peeta does all of it. He so effortlessly moves about the bakery, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

To him, I suppose it is. To me, it's torture. Sometimes it feels like he takes pride in the fact that he has a talent he excels out that I suffer at so miserably. He loves attempting to teach me to bake. He spends an endless amount of time laughing at my expense when things inevitably go horribly wrong each and every time.

To his credit, he never once gives up on me, though more than once I wish he would. After these particularly botched attempts, he gives me a few weeks off in between to try to regain some facade of self-confidence, but he always finds one excuse or another to drag me back in for another disastrous go. And since he never once complains when I ask him to hunt or gather or fish with me, I always agree to give it another try, though I have voiced protests more than once.

"Tell me a happy story," he says during our latest attempt. The bakery is abnormally quiet, especially for the spring. He uses the lack of customers as an excuse to pull me into the back to attempt a simple batch of cupcakes. There is nothing simple about cupcakes, I argue, to which he laughs in reply. So now I'm sitting on a stool in front of the long, white working table. He's positioned behind me, his chest brushing against my back as he leans into me.

His steady, skillful arm fits perfectly against mine as his hand holds mine around the whisk and guides me as we mix the batter together. It's an intimate moment, as we're prone to find ourselves in more and more as of late, and I'm thankful for the deserted bakery out front that offers us the rare opportunity. Though he works tirelessly to include me in all aspects of his life, the bakery is something that belongs solely to him, a part of his heritage and history into which I would never try to force myself. I usually feel guilty for monopolizing even the smallest fraction of his attention during working hours. With the bakery empty, however, I'm able to fail miserably in comfortable, leisurely silence without guilt.

"Hmmm," I venture, pretending to think on his question. I let my eyes drift close as I lean back into him, not for support but to simply feel him there with me.

"Hmmm," he mimics teasingly, leaning into me fully as he reaches forward with his free left hand and dips his index finger into the batter, pausing our mixing for a brief moment. As his finger approaches my mouth, I instinctively open it. Closing it around his finger, I swirl my tongue around his finger as he pulls it away. The batter, which is supposed to be a citrusy mixture, somehow tastes more along the lines of cinnamon. I know with certainty I've somehow managed to botch yet another batch, and I wonder idly why he didn't said anything while I dumped the ingredients into the mixing bowl. I guess he figured I would learn better from my mistakes this way than if he corrected every single thing I did. You would think by now he would have learned differently.

"Ugh." Swallowing the batter, even the small amount he's given me, is a difficult task. "I do hope I'm not going to have to eat this batch."

"Each and every one," he counters. I can feel his smile even if I can't see it.

"This moment, right now," I say as he wipes his finger against the side of his apron and settles his hand lightly on my side. My right hand's starting to ache from the constant stirring, but Peeta's a stickler about mixing until the batter is free of each and every lump. No matter how much I protest, he refuses to buy an electric mixer even though he can easily afford one. The bakery, among other things, is a homage to his childhood and his family, and everything about the way he bakes is exactly the same as the way his father did. It's both heart wrenching and heartwarming at the same time.

"Hmmm?" He asks as a question this time. Satisfied that the batter is lump free, or at least as free as we are going to get it, he moves over to the shelves full of cooking trays. Rows upon rows line the shelves against the wall. Peeta grabs the closest one and brings it back to the table. Shifting slightly on my stool, I turn sideways to face him.

"This moment, right now," I repeat as I tentatively reach out. My fingers trail down the crisp, immaculate white sleeve of his outfit until they reach his wrist and pause. Wrapping my fingers in his, I continue, "is a happy story. Just being in the bakery and spending time with you."

Setting the tray down on the table next to the bowl, he turns to face me as I pull him closer. The curve of my lips into a smile can't be helped. "It's the happiest I've been in ages." It's amazing, how easily I can speak the words now. A year ago, I would have bit them back. It would have been too difficult, I would have been unsure, and not knowing how he might have replied would have terrified me into paralysis. But in this moment it feels like the easiest, most natural thing in the world to confess.

His arms are strong as they fold around me. Though we have long since given up on physical training, I keep my body together hunting and he keeps his in shape doing all the manual labor around the bakery, just as he had as a kid with his brothers for his father. Hundred pound bags of flour don't move themselves. There's an easy comfort I feel when held in Peeta's embrace, and it's difficult to explain just how safe I know I am in these sturdy arms.

His lips are both rough and gentle, urgent and playful, as he kisses me. His body moves to mold into mine, and he swivels me in the stool until my back is to the work space. As he leans into me, the edge of the table digs into my back and I grimace. He corrects immediately and efficiently, kicking the stool out from under me with his good leg while lifting me up by my thighs in the same moment. I gasp in surprise as he catches me and lifts, dropping me without ceremony on top of the table directly behind.

Peeta takes my gasp as an opportunity to deepen the kiss, and the gasp turns quickly into a moan. My fingers refuse to stay motionless; they travel from his hands to his arms, from his shoulders through his hair. I pull him into me as if I could devour him completely. We have had these kinds of moments before, where I have lost myself in the pleasure I wasn't aware my body could even feel, but this is something else entirely. My whole body is alive with desire, and I want to see just how much I can feel, just how much he can elicit from within me. It's a line we've danced at before but never crossed no matter the situation.

My boots slide up the backs of his legs as I wrap my legs around his waist. We are a mess of limbs, equal parts fumbling and exploring each other like we have never before. I wonder if it was what I said or if he's simply been holding back this side of himself for my benefit, until he could be sure I feel the same way about him as he always has about me and that he would be able to handle it when I finally do.

As his lips pull regrettably away from mine and move to leave a searing trail down my neck, I breathlessly say, "I think you should take me home now." I cling to him desperately as I fight the urge to drag his mouth back to mine though I need to take this opportunity to catch my jagged breath.

His lips trail back up to my ear. I tremble as his hand pushes the loose strands of my messy braid back. "You just want an excuse to get out of this batch of cupcakes," he teases.

I almost wonder if he's serious, but I can feel the effort of his heart and how it slams rapidly in his chest. It mirrors my own this way, and I know the sentence is a test of sorts. It offers me an easy way out. It's a way for me to ease out of the situation like we have done each time in the past, before things escalate. Only this time, I don't want to. I don't even have an excuse as to why we ought to.

It's been a year since he returned home. I'm no longer afraid of him lapsing under the influence of the tracker jacker venom. I'm no longer uncertain about my feelings as I was for so long, and Gale no longer weighs on my mind. As I stare into his eyes, I don't second guess whether my feelings for Peeta are genuine or simply a matter of convenience. He's no longer simply the first boy I ever kissed. He's the boy, the man, I want to kiss. And that want weighs so heavily on me now that I feel like I am going to explode if we don't act on it.

"Peeta." It amazes me, the levelness in my voice. I want to tear through him completely, and yet the word is steady and clear. "Take me home," I repeat. This time there is no doubt to the meaning of my words. If it was a test, my answer is clear.

His lips catch mine again as he lifts me off the table and carries me to the ovens. He doesn't even bother to pull the bread out. Without breaking the kiss, he turns off the ovens and extinguishes the fire in the wood burning stove. Then he carries me through the kitchen, setting me down only to reach to turn off the lights and to push me out into the front of the bakery.

Excitement and anticipation make me giddy as he switches off the lights and ushers me outside. Flipping the sign to 'Closed', he locks the door as I breathe in the fresh, spring air around us deeply. I catch the dart of a few pairs of eyes at the sight of the baker closing up in the middle of the day, and I marvel at the fact that Peeta doesn't seem to care about the ruined loaves and the unbaked batter we left on the table.

My fingers shake with nervousness as he finally gets the right key and locks the door. His attention immediately returns to me, and the look in his eyes causes me to melt. I curse my heart for being so weak when it comes to him. I never wanted to be the girl who falls apart from a simple look, but Peeta causes exactly that. As he catches me in a chaste kiss, wrapping his arm around my waist and pulling me towards the Victors' Village, I feel like a teenager. Neither one of us got to experience this type of freedom or emotion when we should have. Instead of flirting in school, I had worried about how much I needed to catch that week to keep my family fed and Peeta had worked in the bakery to help support his family. I had never given thought to the possibility of kissing in the town center with the baker's son, who I had exchanged covert glances with every once in a while.

Passersby pay more and more attention as we make our way towards the house, but the glances and looks are anything but judgmental. After all, I remind myself, this type of behavior has been expected from us the entire time. This public display is far less embarrassing than being spotted in the apothecary buying my herbs. The thought makes it easier yet more intimate at the same time, erasing my embarrassment but making me blush all the same.

Spinning around, I catch him in another kiss. Perhaps it's a test for myself, as we halt just on the edge of the town square and I pull his head down to mine. I know people are watching us, but I don't want to care. Or rather, I want them to watch. I want them to see this time, to know. It makes it real, and it makes it harder for me should I try to change my mind. I don't want to change my mind. I want to be happy, to feel alive again, and I know Peeta will do that for me if I only let him.

So I let him, in the middle of town, where everyone can see. My arms wrap around his neck and I hoist myself up, wrapping my legs around his waist once more as he responds and catches my legs to support me. His muscles flex against my skin. The feeling sends my heart pounding in a flurry. A part of me cowers on the inside, terrified of the public declaration I'm making. The rest of me revels in the excitement and the thrill.

"Stop," Peeta gasps as he suddenly tears his lips away. His head drops onto my shoulder, which does nothing to stop my pounding heart. But the word cuts through me like ice. I freeze against him, terrified of what comes next. I wait for him to start his mantra, for him to push me away while he tries to center himself.

Instead, he lowers me slowly to the ground. "If you don't stop," he whispers against my ear, so even the people inching closer to catch some of his words won't be able to hear, "then I'm not going to be able to stop. And I don't want that here, in front of all these people. I know the Peacekeepers usually turn their heads, but I'm pretty sure that will get even us locked up for a while."

Heat creeps into my cheeks as I realize what he means. His plea to stop is not like the others in the past. If anything, it's a promise of exactly the opposite.

I drag him back to the house as quickly as my shaking legs will go.


	51. Real

My mother never broached the topic of sex with me. By the time I was old enough to talk about such adult themes, she had checked out on life and I had been running the household. That disconnect grew between us; by the time I was old enough to discuss it, she wasn't that kind of mother to me. Even though I worked to grow closer to her after surviving my first Games, there was always so much going on after that. The Victory Tour. The second Games. And then the war. None of which allowed time to even think about sex, much less sit down and talk about it.

I wish she had at some point. It would have undoubtedly been the most awkward experience in my life, but it would have saved me, perhaps, from the awkwardness I feel now as I pull Peeta through the front door and lock it quickly behind him. Though I am by most standards naive, I at least know where babies come from, as they say. One visit to the Hob could cure you of any innocence in that department. If not, the Victory Tour to the Capitol, and all the whisperings, and even rumors about Finnick. But it isn't the same as sitting down with someone experienced and older, and asking the questions you would never ask the Peacekeeper who shouts suggestive comments to you.

At some point upon entering the house, our roles shift as I lose myself in my thoughts. No longer am I the one pulling Peeta along. Instead he is the one guiding me, quickly, towards the bedroom. The bedroom where we sleep together every night, wrapped in each other. Where we have kissed and touched but nothing more. Suddenly, it's real. It's far too real, and it scares me.

"Peeta," I whisper, my hand clinching his as I pause in the upstairs hallway. He turns back to me, his eyes full of hope and love and lust. All emotions I'm sure my own reflect back to him. Only I don't see the nervousness in his, or the fear. The sudden worry that presses down upon me is vacant in his eyes.

We are only a few steps away from the open door. Upon hearing our thunderous footfalls up the stairs Buttercup appears, eyeing us suspiciously. After writing us off as nonthreatening, he ambles away, as if he knows there will be no peace and quiet found up here.

I cannot get myself to cross those last few steps. My feet stay rooted in place, my legs shaking, but now with equal parts excitement and fear. "What if..." I trail off.

"What if what?" he asks just as softly. His hand reaches for the end of my braid, already starting to grow back long, and plays with it in that nervous fashion he often has.

"What if you..." but still I cannot complete the thought. Passion overcrowded my logic back in the bakery. Standing in the hallway, it all comes back. Being in the house reminds me of all the times Peeta has had to fight to regain control of who he is, his sense of self. And I cannot help but remind myself of how many of those times I was an instigator in bringing about an episode.

"Can't get it up?" he asks, catching me completely off guard. I have never heard Peeta make a single suggestive comment about sex. Those words coming from his mouth feel wrong, and I blush furiously. He adds, "I assure you, that won't be a problem."

My head drops to his shoulder because I can't bear to look him in the eye now. He chuckles, his shoulder shaking beneath my forehead. His lips press a gentle kiss against my temple. "Katniss, I'm fine. I'll be fine," he says, finally acknowledging that he's aware of my true concern. "I promise."

"You and I have a habit of making promises to each other that turn out to be lies, one way or another," I mumble against his shoulder, still too embarrassed to meet his gaze. Especially since now, held against him, I can attest to the fact that though he was teasing me, he hadn't been lying.

"I've waited over ten years for this moment," he says, the words achingly sweet. "Well, not this moment, precisely. That is to say, it's not like I obsessed over, well, you know... What I mean is, I've been waiting for you to see me and to give me a chance, to give us a chance, since I was five. Do you really think I would let anything ruin this moment, now?"

I want to make a crude, suggestive comment of my own, not only in retaliation but to defuse some of the tension I feel. But I'm a prude, as people so blatantly point out to me, and I can't bring myself to do it. "I can't lose you again," I tell him instead, because it is the truth. I've lost my father, my mother, my sister. I lost Rue, and Cinna, and Gale. I lost Finnick. Getting Peeta back, getting my boy with the bread back, is the only thing holding me together some days. I would rather have not enough with him than risk losing everything.

He pulls my head from his shoulder. Tilting my head, cupped between his soft but strong hands, he forces me to look him in the eye. "I'm not going anywhere," he swears, his eyes staring deep into mine. "You are going to be stuck with me for a very, very long time." Then he kisses me, his lips pressed to mine almost painfully. As if he's promising himself just as much as he's promising me.

My hands grip his biceps as he pulls away. Running my tongue over my lips, already slightly swollen, I give him an almost unperceivable nod. My heart hammers in my chest, slamming into my ribcage. The fire burning within me threatens to explode. I can no longer deny it, though a hint of worry still lingers in the back of my mind.

"Katniss?" he asks. It is the most loaded question ever without being a question at all.

"Yes," I respond. It isn't a question, but a statement. A firm one, at that. I begin to ease him backward, bridging the gap between us and the bedroom. When we reach the doorway, he pauses, his hands on my waist. "You're sure?" he asks, and I finally see the worry in his eyes. That somehow, I will change my mind. That somehow, I will still be Katniss Everdeen, the girl who doesn't know what she is to Peeta Mellark.

But I know now, in my heart, that this is what is supposed to happen. This is what I want, and it's okay to have it. I'm allowed to be selfish this time. "Yes," I answer again, pushing him back into the room.

I take comfort in the fact that we go into this as one. Both exploring a new area, together. It makes it easier knowing I'm not the only one completely clueless. We fumble. We share nervous laughter. We make light of the situation, though we both know how serious it is, taking this next step together. And then the joking gives way, and we fumble less and less as we find our rhythm. And then I can do nothing but try to gasp for breath as pain and an entirely new fire consume me at the same time.

"You love me," Peeta whispers against my hair as I lay in bed, trying to sort out how I feel. His breath is warm against my neck, both of us slicked with sweat. "Real or not real?"

"Real," I tell him, without hesitation as I roll over to face him. I wince at the dull ache of pain, but it's already subsiding. Of all the pain I've been subjected to over the past few years, this is by far the best. "Real," I repeat, just in case, as I kiss him. Our eyes flutter shut, and I repeat the word silently to myself, making this moment real and solidifying it in my memory, blissfully aware that Peeta is still with me. He is still my boy with the bread.


	52. After

What I feel now is an odd sensation. We've laid together in this bed too many times to count, but it seems different now. I feel different now. We've slipped back into our undergarments, but the sheets are still tangled around us. My fingers twitch and rub against each other as I glance out the window or stare up at the ceiling or peer towards the door. I look everywhere but toward Peeta, because I'm not sure what we do now.

The only people I've ever told I love are my father, my mother, and Prim. Gale said it to me, but I never said it back. I couldn't say it back. And I didn't even say the exact words this time either. But I told Peeta I did. And I do. I think I do. But I'm still not entirely sure what that all means.

That's not even why I can't bear to look him in the eye though. I'm terrified of what he might think, far too terrified to ask. Was I terrible? Was he? How would we have any way of knowing? It is something that's supposed to be instinctual, or is it something we're supposed to grow better at with time, together? And if I was terrible, will it change his mind about how he feels?

I wonder if we should try again. Maybe give us something to compare the first time to, since neither one of us has any experience at any of this. It is comforting, knowing that Peeta's also never done this before. Hopefully he won't know if I was terrible or not. As all these thoughts run through my head, I silently pray he'll never find someone else to compare me too. Not only am I afraid of how I might stack up, but I honestly can't imagine what my life would be like if Peeta ever disappeared from it. He's the one constant I have left. I don't want to end up a bitter, pessimistic person like Haymitch. Though even Haymitch is seeing better times these days.

Peeta slides out of the bed without a word and heads toward the bathroom. I watch his retreating form once I'm positive he isn't going to stop and turn around to catch my eye. When he comes back, he's pulling on an undershirt to accompany his boxers. As the bed shifts under his weight, he hands me a shirt as well. Sitting up slowly, wincing at the sore parts of my body that aren't used to stretching as they just did, I pull the shirt on over my head.

I don't know what it is about the thin cotton of the fabric, but it feels like an effective shield. With my stomach and back and shoulders hidden, I muscle up the strength to finally glance at Peeta. As soon as our eyes meet, we're both leaning in. Something pulls us to one another, and we come together so easily. He guides me to him, and I roll over on top of him, no longer capable of thinking deep enough thoughts to be self-conscious or worried.

His hands are trailing up my sides, beneath the shirt, and I figure I can't have been that bad based upon his reaction now. I've only just managed to put a shirt back on and already he's trying to take it back off. As if he misses the sight of my bare skin. My fake skin, so painstakingly redone in the Capitol. A perfect blank canvas for him to paint, again and again.

He pulls away slightly. His breath tickles my skin, moist in the warmth surrounding us beneath the sheets as we share our collective heat. "I'm sorry," he whispers. My heart sinks. Of all the things I can think of for him to say, I didn't expect this. His hand pushes through the loose tangles of my hair. My hair tie was a casualty of the quick but furious movements, and my tangled hair lays in heaps around my head. "We probably should have waited longer."

I wait for him to elaborate. He finally does, "Maybe we weren't ready. Maybe I pressured you and we-"

My laughing cuts him off. He looks at me like I've lost my mind. Maybe I have, a bit. "I was ready to rip your clothes off in the middle of town square," I remind him. I'm not at all ashamed of the admission, now that I've found a way to look him in the eye. This is natural, I remind myself. It's part of finding the new boundaries of who we are, together.

"Are you hungry?" he asks. His fingers play with the end of my hair. The other hand is settled on my back, between my shirt and my skin. It feels like it belongs there. As if it is an extension of my own body.

I nod, because I am. He gets out of bed again and disappears out the doorway and down the hall in a blink of an eye. I follow behind him, though I take my time as I wonder if we're going to talk about what just happened between us. Wondering if we're supposed to. Wondering what we would even say. I grab his bakery pants off the floor and slip into them with a coy smile. They smell of him and comfort me immediately, softening the madness in my mind.

I eventually make it down to the kitchen where he's bustling about. Soft, sweet aromas of sugar and cinnamon and maple float through the air as I breathe them in deeply. I still feel like I'm trying to catch my breath. As he works on whipping up a meal, I sink into a chair at the table and turn on the projector screen in the middle. Flipping aimlessly through the feeds, I pay little attention until I reach one of the Capitol gossip feeds and halt. There I am, draped shamelessly on Peeta in the middle of town. Not just for the locals to see, but for all of Panem with nothing better to do than sit in front of the feed and eat it up.

I hadn't even seen the mechanical camera eye flitting around town, but it must have been. Talk about poor timing. It must have found a way to film our little scene and sent it in to the Capitol. I'd be impressed with how quickly they got it on the air, except I'm too busy being livid at the invasion of my privacy. The volume is turned off on the projector, but I can read the ribbon scrolling across the bottom of the screen. My cheeks turn red as I read the words. My fists clench, and I want to smash them through the base of the projector.

Then I hear Peeta approaching, and my attitude changes immediately. I go from destructive to protective. I flip through the feeds, getting as far away from our public scene as possible as he comes up beside me and places a hand on the top of the chair. "Dinner is heating up," he declares as he leans over and presses a kiss to my temple. "And you make an excellent arm accessory," he teases, the words light against my ear.

Of course he saw it. He could have seen it all the way from the kitchen if he glanced up. In my newly renewed embarrassment, I slug him in the arm for his teasing. He laughs it off, asking if I'm going to throw him into a vase of flowers next, just like old times. It's one of the easier memories for Peeta to recall since it's one that the Capitol didn't have to alter all that much and so it isn't as shiny. The mention of it brings a pang to my heart.

"I just hope you aren't still acting for the cameras," he said offhandly.

With that one comment, I am able to completely forget what I just saw on the feed. I'm able to overlook the invasion of privacy and the constant interference in our lives. I'm able to look at Peeta and see the whole world, right there in his eyes. With two simple words, I say all there is that needs to be said about what happened today, about where we go from here. "What cameras?" I ask.


	53. Public Display

It isn't until I start to get the phone calls that I realize just how serious the trouble is that comes with the video that played on the feeds. We're used to being in the public eye, so after the clip of me leaping onto Peeta in the square caught fire and spread through the districts, we do our best to ignore it. It's hardly gossip, after all. We figure it will cover the feeds for a day, or two tops. And we are right.

But then the phone starts to ring. I expect reporters from the Capitol wanting some kind of comment or an exclusive interview. A hundred different scenarios run through my head. Probably every scenario, likely or not, except the truth. Because the truth is, it is Gale on the other end of the line. And that's something I'm not prepared for.

The first time, I drop the phone in shock. I recognize his voice immediately; how could I not? I grew up with that voice, always bossing me around or chastising my skill, or – once in a rare while – complementing my skill. I know that voice from a thousand miles away. Once I get over the shock, I pick up the phone, but I immediately drop it down on the receiver. I'm not ready for whatever he has to say, not when the timing of his call is so coincidental.

He calls again. And again. He keeps calling, in fact, until I can no longer stand the shrill ringing reverberating through the house. I break my silence and ask him what he wants. He says he wants to meet, and I laugh off the suggestion. Not thinking he could possibly be serious. But he is. He apologizes about the way my visit went when I showed up in Two and asks if we can try again. Funny, how he doesn't mention his run in with Haymitch at the door of our rooms in the Capitol around the New Year. In fact, he doesn't say much of anything of substance at all.

All he says, all he repeats, is that he wants to see me. He can't seem to get out what he wants to say over the phone, but acts as if somehow seeing me will miraculously bring the words to light. I tell him I don't think it's such a good idea. That I don't think I'm ready to see him just yet. I question his timing, but not aloud. I say a lot, but a lot I still keep buried deep down where it's safe.

He understands, or so he says. He asks me to think about it, please. Then I hang up, and I think the conversation wasn't too bad. That I have survived it, and it hasn't killed me. But it isn't enough for Gale. Maybe isn't enough. The promise to think about it isn't enough. He continues to call, to pressure, and I dread picking it up. Because I know what he'll say, and because he becomes a little more persistent with each passing call.

I try to ignore it. I file it away as something I don't want to deal with. It's a problem for the distant future, but the future nonetheless. If I don't give it attention, I can't give it power. And I don't want to give it – him, our friendship, whatever might still exist between us – power. Not now. Not when I'm finally finding the balance in my life. Not when things are finally going well.

"Just stop," I tell him, shouting through the phone, when I reach my breaking point one afternoon. "I can't do this, Gale. I know I said I'd try. And this has been me trying. But this is it. This is all I can do. And even this is too much. So please, if you care at all, stop calling."

I hang up. I wait for the phone to ring again. I sit on the edge of the couch all day, staring at the phone on the end table. Waiting for it to ring while I hold my breath. It doesn't, but it doesn't make me breathe any easier. It's only when Peeta gets home, late, that I allow myself to believe that he's honoring my wish and leaving me be. Maybe Peeta is still right. Maybe, one day, far down the road, we will find a way to reconcile. But I know it won't be like this. This pressure he's been putting on me, it will only make my claws come out, and it will only end in anger for both of us.

I file it away in the back of my mind. The clip no longer runs on the fed as the people of the Capitol have much more important things to fill their lives with. Peeta and I never should have made the feeds in the first place. It takes a little bit of time, but our lives finally return to normal.

At least for a few days. When Haymitch rings the front doorbell for our weekly dinner, I leave Peeta in the kitchen to go answer it. But when I open the door, it isn't Haymitch waiting on the front steps. It's Gale. And my whole world shatters into a thousand pieces as all the different parts of my life, of my heart and soul, collide.


	54. Collision

There are so many things I want to say to him. Things I want to yell. I want to slam the door on his hand, repeatedly, until I hear the crunch of breaking bones. But when I look at him standing there, he's the Gale I remember. I hesitate and the anger slowly ebbs away, though it far from disappears.

I tell him, "You have no right to be here." The crisp, clear words are amazingly level considering how I'm shaking with rage inside. It wasn't enough for his incessant phone calls? He didn't feel like he'd pushed me by hounding me day after day over the phone? Now he stands on my front steps. I'm livid. Beyond livid. "You shouldn't be here," I repeat. "You ran away to District Two with your tail between your legs. You have no right to just come back on a whim. You don't belong here."

"I can't stop thinking about that kiss, Katniss."

He doesn't have to explain which kiss he's referring to. I know perfectly well which one he means. My stomach turns at the memory. I doubt he remembers it the same wayI do. "It keeps me up at night," he continues as if he hasn't heard a single one of my objections to his presence. "I remember the way you kissed me back, and it haunts me."

"I remember that too," I admit, teeth ground together. "It was right before I slapped you," I remind him. With a sigh, I continue. "Yes, I kissed you back. But I shouldn't have, Gale. It didn't mean anything. It was a mistake. That's all." I put emphasis on the last two words. His skull is as thick as mine and he is twice as stubborn, but I do my best to drive the point home.

"It meant something," he insists, which shows how terrible I am at this. "At some point, it meant something to both of us."

"At some point, maybe," I concede, though I'm not entirely sure. "But even if it did, which I'm only saying is possible… it doesn't mean anything now. Not anymore." I wonder how many ways I can say the same thing, how many ways he can find to make the same argument. We go round and round, and nothing seems to ever change. Except maybe I get a little more annoyed with him each time we talk. It puts fractures in whatever might still exist of our fragile friendship.

"Katniss, I just want the chance to-"

"I love Peeta." The words blurt from my mouth like an arrow from my bow. I clamp my mouth closed in shock, but it's too late. We both stare at each other with mixed horror and surprise. I'm not sure which of us is more caught off guard at the proclamation.

It takes Gale a moment to recover from my verbal bomb. While he stands and continues to stare at me in disbelief, I scramble to find the words to follow. I'm at a complete loss. There is no follow up to that.

Gale, however, feels inclined to try. "Do you?" I want to laugh. It sounds like a challenge. Something Snow would have put before me. I fully expect the next words to come out of his mouth to be, 'Convince me'. But Gale doesn't hold that kind of power over me, to demand such a thing. No one does anymore. I bask in the benefits of this world, this new version of Panem.

But Gale isn't done. "Or do you just think you can't live without him?"

It's something I've heard before. In the basement of Tigris's shop, in the Capitol during the war. Gale told Peeta I would pick whichever one of them I couldn't live without. It had bothered me then and even more so now. He has no right to show up at my front door and demand proclamations. No right to question what I may or may not feel for Peeta.

Anger wells inside of me. I realize this feeling filling me now is the reason Gale and I will never work out. We are the same side of a coin, too alike for our own good. We both love to pick at the scars of others just to prove we are right. We both have to be right all the time, but we hardly ever agree on what right is anymore.

"Stop." The word is sharp. Another arrow from my mouth, aimed straight for his heart. "Shut up." In all the time we've known each other, I've never demanded such from him before. "You have no right to show up here." I say it again, wishfully thinking it will stick this time.

Then he aims an arrow of his own. "You did the same thing, Katniss. You showed up, unannounced at my front door. Wanting to talk with me. To reconcile. That's all I'm doing."

That is not all he's doing. Not at all. But I'm already growing weary of this fight. I'm racking my brain for the next grenade, something to throw at him to knock him off his feet and off my front steps. I'm sidetracked by the sound of my name, called out from within the house.

With Gale's unexpected appearance at the door, I'd forgotten we were waiting for Haymitch. That Peeta's been in the kitchen this entire time and likely heard the front bell ring. He's probably wondering what's keeping me and Haymitch in the hallway. I spin on my heels, aiming to head to the kitchen to stall him. I'm too late. He's standing at the other end of the hallway, and I've moved to the side enough to offer him a clear view of who's standing in the doorway.

Peeta's smile as he approaches us looks as forced as the ones I usually muster. I wish the Capitol's black goo would cover the floor and suck me into the ground. I've only confessed my feelings to Peeta the one time, and now I've told it to Gale just the same. The last thing I need is them standing in the hallway together, dissecting my feelings. Dissecting me.

"Gale." Peeta's greeting is warm and friendly. Though I suspect Peeta would even invite the Peacekeepers trying to kill us into our home. He's far too civil sometimes. His face changes slightly when he reaches me, and for the briefest of moments I see the kink in his armor. "What a surprise and a pleasure," he tells Gale as he reaches around me to extend his hand to Gale.

It was a sliver of a glance, but I saw it. Peeta's about as happy to see Gale as I am. It comforts me, but only a little. They shake hands, the hold longer than customary. I wonder if it's a power play to see who has the stronger grip. I have to admit, I like this rare side of Peeta. He may appear meek and amicable to the untrained eye, but he will not go down without a fight and doesn't appreciate the intrusion.

Then Peeta says, "Why don't you come in? We were just getting ready for dinner and have more than we could possibly ever eat, especially if Haymitch doesn't show up soon." I have to resist the urge to punch him. I've spent this entire time trying to convince Gale to leave, and Peeta invites him into the house to stay longer.

"As long as it isn't an inconvenience," Gale says. He catches my eye and dares me to interject.

"Not at all. Always glad for company," Peeta replies before I get the chance. "What brings you to town?" he inquires as he ushers Gale inside.

I want to scream in frustration. I want to toss them both out onto the lawn and take my chances with an evening alone with Haymitch.

Gale tells us the new elects are going from district to district to get a feel for Panem after the war. To help them shape their policies and what they hope to accomplish while governing, or so he claims. He admits he's seen more than most, but that it's interesting to see how the districts have already starting to diversify and change in the year since the end of Snow's oppressive reign.

We sit in the living room. Peeta and Gale chat socially. I stare at the wall and will Haymitch to hurry his sorry ass over. Usually he shows up early and raids the cabinets before dinner is on the table. The one night he would be useful, and he's nowhere to be seen. I wonder if he caught sight of Gale and just decided to stay home. Possible. Probable.

The coward.

Peeta excuses himself to make tea and check on the food. I sit in uncomfortable silence with Gale, refusing to look anywhere but the slightly darker spot on the wall near the mantle.

"Did you sleep with him before you came to visit me in Two? Or after, when the visit didn't go the way you expected it to?"

It's a verbal slap in the face, and it stings like a bitch. My head turns to the side, putting my cheek in between us as a buffer. My lower jaw cocks to the right, and I grind my uneven teeth in anger and shock at the accusation. I have to grip both armrests of the chair to keep from leaping across the coffee table and punching him in the jaw. My rage has turned from fire to ice. "That," I spit out, "is none of your damn business." Each word is punctuated with a shard of ice, sharpened to a point. Then, because I cannot help but defend myself, I add, "But no, I hadn't. And I didn't."

"Oh, you did." His dry laugh is anything but humorous. "Maybe not right away, but you did. One look at you, Katniss, or one look at the newsfeeds, and that is painfully clear. What I can't get over is that you did it to hurt me. To drive me away. I never thought you were _that_ cruel."

My grip tightens until my knuckles turn white. Now he's trying to get a rise out of me, and I won't give him the satisfaction.

"I'm sorry that I hurt you," he tells me, though he doesn't sound sorry for anything. "And for what happened to Prim. I know I'll never be able to make up for the fact that I didn't protect your family." Didn't protect them or killed them? There's a difference in my mind, even if there isn't in his. "But that doesn't give you the right to use Peeta just to upset me. Peeta deserves better than that."

He knows all the right buttons to push, I'll give him that. Knows exactly what to say to fuel my temper. I thought I'd hated him when we'd met in Snow's house in the Capitol. When I asked him about Prim and he didn't deny it. But the feeling then pales in comparison to how I feel in this moment. Like I want to rip his lungs from his chest and squeeze them until he's gasping for breath.

With his impeccable timing, Peeta reenters the room holding a tea tray just as I shoot up from my chair and move to step around the coffee table. "Get out." I don't yell it, but it's just as effective as if I had.

For a moment, Peeta pauses like he thinks I might be talking to him. Then he sees the way I'm standing and I see the warning in the way he looks at me. Peeta's presence is the only reason I don't act on my anger. I know he'll be disappointed if I do any of the things I'm debating.

Standing on the side of the coffee table, I look down at Gale. The presence of Peeta holding tea and the promise of getting to curl up next to him in bed tonight helps back me down off the ledge. "There is nothing left for you here, Gale," I finally say. "I have nothing left to offer you and I can't give you what you want. Not now. Not anymore."

I venture a glance back over to Peeta and wish I hadn't. It's all too much at once. "Leave, Gale," I practically beg. "Just leave."

On cue the front door rings. If it isn't Haymitch, I'm going to shoot whoever else it is. The sound of the bell does not break the tension. If anything it builds it. No one moves. Then Gale starts to protest, and Peeta puts his foot down as he sets the tray on the coffee table. "She asked you to leave," Peeta says politely. "I think it's best if you respect her wishes now." Abet with an apology, Peeta escorts Gale to the front door as he goes to let Haymitch in.

I stay in the living room, figuring it's the safest place for me at the moment. They hover by the front door before Peeta opens it and ushers Gale out while he invites Haymitch in. With Haymitch present, we don't discuss it, though Haymitch does his best to broach the subject of Gale's appearance several times throughout the meal. By the time Haymitch leaves, I'm too exhausted to get into it. I get the feeling Peeta is too, so we go to bed and don't speak a word about any of it.


	55. Start Again

He wakes me with the sound of my name. My eyes open to daylight brightness. I wonder immediately how late I've slept. I hardly ever sleep past the sunrise, but from the light streaming in through the windows I can tell I'm far beyond the early morning glow. Stirring slowly, I roll over to face him. It's surprising he's still home as the bakery should long be open by this time of day.

The look in Peeta's eyes tells me why he hasn't left. He has questions. Though he kept them to himself last night, he's ready to ask them now. I'm not sure I'm ready to answer them yet. I'm afraid of what I might say, of how he might interpret it. Things have been good between us, better than I imagined possible, and I'm terrified of ruining it. I can picture it crashing down around me while fighting so hard to keep it together.

"Bakery?" I ask, knowing the conversation has to start somewhere and reluctant to start with the glaringly obvious choice.

"Later." His reply is as curt as my question.

Nodding against my pillow, I stifle a sigh. "What Gale said last night-" I start, but he cuts me off.

"I don't want to talk about Gale."

As much as I would love to leave it at that, his words feel like a test. A game, the type of game I hate to play. But I know Gale is all Peeta wants to talk about or he wouldn't still be lying in bed waiting for me to wake. "I don't either," I admit, "but I think it needs to be said."

"What?" he asks, giving himself the advantage and putting me on the spot.

It isn't a contest, I remind myself. Peeta and I aren't contestants fighting against each other. We're on the same side, a team. Sometimes this simple truth is the hardest to remember. So used to looking out for myself, for trying to save myself, it's hard to remember I have someone other than myself or Prim to think about. It's something I'm not sure I'll ever adjust to.

"I meant what I said to him." I hesitate for a moment before continuing. "I don't know how much you heard, what he suggested. But I meant every word. Gale has turned into someone I never thought he could be, someone I don't recognize. And whatever potential there was, it will never be there again." I charge on, not giving Peeta the chance to interrupt. "And even if there was the possibility, I'm happy here. Incredibly happy. I don't want that to change. I don't want us to change."

Peeta is the one who sighs. Punching the pillow into a lumpy ball, he leans back against it. Pressed against the headboard, he looks straight ahead at the open door. He's searching for some kind of response but doesn't seem capable of finding one.

When the silence becomes too much, I break it. "Say something," I beg. I pull the sheet up around me to keep warm as I sit and turn to face him. The air feels seasonally cool for late morning spring.

"What do you want me to say?"

I admit, "I don't know."

Silence stretches between us. It's a tangible weight hovering overhead.

"He loves you." The words pain him to say. They pain me to hear.

"I don't think he does. Gale has always wanted what he doesn't have. Freedom. A life outside of the mines. A life outside of Twelve, separate from his responsibilities to his family."

"You," Peeta adds pointedly.

"Me," I confess. "But he's only ever wanted me when others showed interest first. He likes the challenge and wants what he can't have. But I don't think he loves me. I think he's jealous of you, if anything. That you're able to be the kind of man he isn't."

It feels strange discussing Gale with Peeta. Peeta has brought him up a few times in the past but only briefly and only to hint at reconciliation. Peeta doesn't mind my friendship with Gale. I daresay Gale and Peeta could even be friends had the stars aligned differently. Peeta still tries even now. But the subject of Gale's attraction to me is taboo and for good reason. I don't like to talk about it in general, least of all with Peeta.

"Can we just start over?" I ask. Curling my toes, I stress them until they give a satisfying crack. Stretching my legs out, I roll my neck on my shoulders. I hadn't realized how tense my body was until just now. "Pretend like last night never happened?" I clarify as I slowly ease myself up into a sitting position.

He mauls it over. "I don't think it works that way." My heart sinks with his answer. Though I suppose it was a long shot, I had hoped for some sign that Peeta wishes for the same thing. His answer reveals the opposite.

As I sit up, he does as well. Beginning to stretch himself, he looks over at me with a yawn as he reaches over his head. When his arms come back down, his reaches to run his hand through my hair. Pushing the mess of tangles back, his thumb brushes against my cheek. As I wait with batted breath for him to say something else, I'm struck with the overwhelming feeling of need. I need him to tell me that Gale changes nothing. I need for us to be okay. Though I've come to rely on Peeta since his return to Twelve a year ago, I hadn't until this moment understood just how deep that dependence is. Just the thought of a fracture in our relationship threatens to rip my heart from my chest.

"We don't get to sweep it under the rug and pretend it never happened. Wishing it away will only make it dwell longer." His hand traces down my arm before resting on the bed next to my side.

"What do we do then?" I ask, acutely aware of the sporadic beating of my heart. My fingers twitch to reach for him and to pull him to me, so he may never go again. I've already lost so much, and I don't think my heart with survive this one. Not after Prim. Not after how long it took us to get to this point.

"We have breakfast," he tells me with a quick rise of his brows and a quirk of a smile. "And then I head to the bakery and you head to the woods."

Pushing the sheets back, he stands. I am left sitting, clutching desperately at the sheets as my eyes bore a hole in his back. Surely that is not all he has to say on the matter. "Peeta," I insist, a temor in my voice as I plead.

He pulls a plain t-shirt on over his head before he turns back to face me. "I trust you, Katniss. As hard as it is sometimes and no matter how jealous I might feel in other times. I trust you. Completely."

I let out a shaky breath, but I sense that he isn't finished yet.

"I just needed to hear you say it," he continues. "That I'm not going to wake up one morning and find you've disappeared. That you ran away in search of a different life."

I stumble through the mass of sheets as I clamber to the edge of the bed. Clumsily getting to my feet, I cross the small distance between us. His skin is warm against my arms as I pull him into me. He hadn't stayed home this morning to pick a fight. He'd been lying there watching me, surprised I hadn't slipped from the bed in the middle of the night to follow Gale. It hurts to think he could even imagine such a thing, and yet I'm selfishly relieved.

"I'm not going anywhere," I promise, my lips pressed against the nape of his neck as I hold him tight.


	56. Need (Summer)

Most of the time, it is as if nothing has changed between us. Our daily routines do not alter and neither do our actions for the most part. Most evenings Peeta is exhausted from a long day at the bakery and I'm tuckered out from a day spent under the insufferable heat of the summer sun in the woods. We eat, we discuss our days. Sometimes, if Peeta isn't dead on his feet, he paints. When he does, I try to work on the book. When I'm feeling weighed down by the burdens of the past but Peeta has the need to paint, I simply watch him and marvel at his talent.

Most days the comfort we take in being in each other's presence is enough. It is more than enough. But there are times, every now and again, when I feel a need. A need that I now know only Peeta can satisfy. We will be sitting in the living room and I will glance up to find him already looking at me. There will be this look in his eye, and I will lose sense. My body takes control over my mind, and I cannot stop myself from wanting to devour him.

He is no better. Though he shows as much self-control as I do, he has his weak moments as well. They usually revolve around my singing, which I still don't realize I'm doing more often than not. We'll be in his bakery or in the kitchen or, on the rare occasion, in the woods together when he can take a day off from work. I won't realize I'm singing until I see an almost dazed look in his eyes, like he is lost in the melody. Lost in me. And then he will gravitate to me, and I'm helpless to push him away. If anything, I'm guilty of pulling him towards me closer. In these moments, we lose ourselves in the newly discovered bliss of intimacy I never thought I'd be able to experience.

When these situations arise, I feel his love in every fiber of my being. I feel a need that is desperate and almost angry. I can't tell if it is his or mine, but I believe it is a bit of both. We want each other, but I think we also need each other. We give each other comfort that we cannot find in others. We've been through so much together, and I know our path is far from over. We will suffer more heartache and pain in this lifetime. But in these moments, for the first time, I honestly believe that we'll make it through it, and we'll be stronger for it.

When I look into his eyes, when I scrape my teeth against the skin of his neck and gasp his name in a pleasure I never dreamt I could possess, I don't feel broken. And when he whispers my name and buries his head against my neck and drops his weight onto me, I no longer worry that it will break him. I wipe the sweaty hair from his forehead and kiss his slick skin. When I look into his eyes, I don't worry that his pupils will dilate or that he'll lose himself in memories. Because this is new to both of us, and we're building only happy memories from it now, not reliving tragedies of our past.

Once in a blue moon, my mind will drift to Gale while I am in the woods. I'll spot one of my snares, or I'll catch sight of a deer darting through the foliage. It will trigger memories, mostly happy ones, of hunting with Gale. I will think about calling him or visiting him, as if we might be able to reconcile our friendship though nothing has changed. I still wonder, in those fleeting moments, how we ended up so far apart. Sometimes I let myself ponder what could have been if things had not fallen so far off the path we'd started on. Would he have stayed in Twelve? Could we have been hunting in the woods together, bringing back dinner for Prim and Peeta? But the thoughts are only as brief as the sight of the deer darting behind the trunk of a large tree and disappearing deeper into the woods, as fast as the flames consumed my sister.

I know now, in my heart, with the upmost certainty, that they were right about what they spoke of in the dark when they thought I was asleep. I picked the one I couldn't live without. Even if Gale hasn't killed all those innocent children, even if he had stayed in Twelve and we had remained friends. The one I need, that keeps me centered and true and honest to myself, would always have been Peeta. I feel a need, body and heart and soul, for Peeta that I never felt and never will feel for Gale even if we somehow manage to reconcile down the road. And though I miss those moments hunting with my best friend, I wouldn't trade what I have now for what I might have had with him. Gale had his chance, before I was reaped. Before Peeta confessed his love or the Peacekeeper flirted harmlessly. Long before we weaved tangled lies of marriage and cousins and miscarriages, it was just me and Gale in the woods, taking care of each other and our families. What I told Peeta on New Year's wasn't a lie. Sometimes I wonder what if to occupy my mind, but I never want to find out. Not anymore.

For the first time in my life, I'm happy. I ache for Prim every day and I even miss my mother. I miss Gale and Madge and everyone else who haunt Twelve now, but I have Peeta. And I let myself be happy, even when my heart still hurts. I think this is what Dr. Aurelius meant about healing and moving on. I no longer suffer from the hunger I had my entire life. The hunger I have now is a whole new beast. A healthy one, I guess. One someone my age, who is experiencing love for the first time, is supposed to suffer from. It's scary and exciting and intimidating all at once. We are a team as we navigate these uncharted waters in the best possible way together. And in those moments, Gale and my family and the Capitol are the furthest things from my mind.


	57. Sweetheart

It is my least favorite season of the year. When the temperatures rise, temperaments do as well. I am no exception. I wipe the sweat from my brow as I stalk towards town square with my game bag slung over my shoulder. The sleeve of my shirt is already damp before I drag it across my forehead. The smell leaves something to desire.

If I need anything, it's a tall glass of ice water and a bath. I also need to dump the contents of my bag, my prizes from a testy day spent broiling in the unforgiving rays of the sun. No amount of canopy or cloud cover saved me from the sweltering heat, and most of my snares and traps had been set out under the direct light of the sun. My mood is a few shades from pleasant as I carry the bag towards the butcher first.

I know better than to spend the summer in the woods, but I've returned for lack of better ways to occupy my time. The oppressive heat in the bakery is no better. Peeta and I have quickly found it unhealthy for our budding relationship to spend such hours confined together in the heat. So sometimes I brave the weather, knowing it will only be worst indoors.

Pushing through the door to the butcher's, I toss the bag down onto the counter without commentary. I'm too worn out to even speak. The effort of opening my mouth would potentially pitch me over the edge and cause me to pass out. A cold soak, indeed, as soon as I get home. I'll worry about bartering to spend the money tomorrow. Today, I just want to get home and wait for the sun to set, to catch a small reprieve before tomorrow.

Coins are pushed across the counter. Sweeping them into my palm, I don't even bother a glance. The price is non-negotiable after all. And Rooba has been more than fair this summer, glad for the meat when others are smart enough to stay in the shade of their homes. With a lackluster nod in thanks, I depart as swiftly as I entered the shop. The smell of raw meat turns my stomach since I haven't eaten all day. Fresh fruit is what I want though, not hot meat.

The trek toward my house is merciless. It seems to get further and further outside of town with each passing day. My legs threaten to buckle, but I push them on. I will fill the bath as soon as I get home, I promise to them. Still they protest.

Just as I make my escape from town, the Goat Man catches my eye. I try to divert my attention, but I'm not quick enough. He beckons me over, and though I am tired and in no mood to socialize, I am not so rude as to completely brush him off. My legs halt with relief as I turn to face him. As I stand and stare towards him, he motions me closer.

With an exhausted exhale of humid air, I move closer. I wait for him to speak, dreading having to strike up conversation. But in this respect, I am spared. He says nothing at all, makes no attempt to speak. His aged fingers, permanently arched towards the center of his palm, move to grasp a rope lead. His hand shakes as his tries to close his fist around it while holding it out towards me.

My eyes follow the length of the rope. When they reach the end, my stomach turns for another reason now. At the end of the rope stands a small goat who reminds me of Lady soon after Prim nursed her back to health. The resemblance is uncanny, a twist of a knife to the gut. I keep telling myself I am over these moments of weakness. That one day the memories will cease to hit with such a force that knocks me off balance. I've been wrong so far; that day has yet to come.

His empty hand reaches for me, draws mine closer to him as he places the rope in my palm and curls my fingers around it. As I stare at him in bewilderment, he gives a nod of his head in affirmation.

"I don't have anything to trade," I tell him dumbly. The weight of coins sags against my belt, but in the moment I forget them, too shocked to think logically or clearly.

Shaking his head, he squeezes my hand before he pushes it back towards me and releases. As he stands there, he proceeds to shoo me away now that our business is apparently concluded. I can't move. All I can think about is how long we bartered when I bought Lady for Prim. I remember how hesitant he was to drop a single coin from the cost. And now he's giving me this goat, apparently for free.

War has changed us all. I see it every day in new and startling ways. I don't know what has spurred this act of kindness, but I vow not to let it go unpaid. I will bring him milk and cheese. I'll add bread from the bakery when I drop it off. I will love this stupid goat as much as my sister loved hers. I will remember this act of kindness and strive to make ones of my own.

With a nod in thanks, I head home without a word. My mind reels. I'm sitting on the front steps, my bath long forgotten, when Peeta comes home from the bakery. The goat stands at my feet, obliviously chewing on a patch of grass. Peeta raises an eyebrow in question. I chew on a piece of ice from my glass of water as I relay the short story.

Joining me on the steps, he asks what I'm going to name it. I've thought about it since the moment we arrived home, and I think I've finally got the answer. When I tell Peeta, he lets out a roaring laugh. He laughs so hard his eyes water. I think he may suffocate from the lack of oxygen, unable to catch his breath between the gaffs of hysteria.

As he sits and leans forward casually to rub the top of the goat's head, the questions slowly come. Prim had a goat? Real. I told him about it in the cave during our first Games? Real. The more we play this game, the more real everything becomes. The hazy memories are few and far between, and I take it as a sign that we're almost there. One day, we might be able to leave this game behind us. One day, there will be nothing left to doubt.

When Haymitch comes for dinner that night, his reaction is quite different. His face falls to a scowl as he stares me down. "Appropriate, though, I guess. There's an uncanny resemblance," he says, glancing back and forth between me and the goat. "Though I have to say, the goat is probably more attractive than you, Sweetheart."

At the sound of her new name, the goat bleats merrily as we herd her into the back and head inside to eat.


	58. Present

He tries to get by without fanfare, but I squash that plan like a bug. He is the unofficial official king of celebrating birthdays, and this year I am determined to finally out do him. Since he refuses to conveniently forget my birthday, this year I invite everyone we even remotely socialize with to dinner. Everyone is under strict orders that it is to remain a surprise, and he doesn't seem to have any clue that I have something planned.

Glad for an excuse to stay out of the sweltering heat for the day, I skip hunting and enlist Greasy Sae's help. Even Hazelle offers a hand as she sees Greasy Sae and I loaded down with baskets full of food as we take the back paths through town to avoid being within sight of the bakery. Though I feel guilty accepting her help, we gladly take it. Greasy Sae hands over a woven basket and a cloth bag.

Our little party treks through, down and up the front path to my house. We pass by Haymitch lounging on his front porch. Legs propped up on the railing, he tilts on the back two legs of his chair with a hat tilted down over his head. Seeing our trio shuffling down the street past him, he makes no offer to help. Instead, he offers only the advice, "Try not to poison the boy too much, Sweetheart."

I remind him that he's attending dinner and to perhaps worry about his own plate instead. But I'm so out of breath and over exerted that my threat falls idly as he laughs.

Buttercup darts in and out of everyone's legs, excited at the prospect of fresh food. "Don't even think about it," I warn him, shooing him away with a gentle shove of my leg as I try not to trip over him. I make a mental note to keep an eye on him throughout the evening. He is prone for daring attempts at food from the table, as the last thing I need is for him to make a diving leap while we have company over.

In the kitchen, we divide and conquer with amazing efficiency. We work with hardly any spoken dialogue as we maneuver around each other in the vast kitchen. Hazelle chops while Greasy Sae stirs. I stare down at the abomination in the mixing bowl, my shoulder already aching. I will not be defeated, not this time. I will bake this blasted cake, and it will be delicious. I send these thoughts silently to the batter with each turn of the wooden spoon, as if I can bend my words into truth by simply repeating my plea over and over in my head.

It takes us all day, yet it seems far too early when people start to trickle into the house. When I glance at the clock, my heart hammers in my chest realizing the time. Checking the oven, I immediately turn it off and pull the cake out. Sidetracked by the fruit salad, I'd almost lost track of it, which would have been a disaster. As it is, it looks a little browner than it should be.

Feeling hopeless, I turn to face Hazelle as I carry it toward the only vacant space on the counter. "Don't worry, dear," she says kindly, "he's going to love it."

My shoulders sag a bit as I set it down and pull off the oven mitts. I've done the best I can. There's nothing else I can do for it now except smother it with a sweet buttercream icing and hope it masks any off flavors.

As the cake cools, I make an entrance into the sitting room where people stand, lean, and sit casually about. One person in particular sticks out in the crowd. Her snow white hair, though the most muted color to date, is a stark contrast to the natural colors around her. I will admit, though, that her outfit is much more subtle than usual. If it weren't for the hair and the touch of vivid makeup, I would almost say she looks normal.

"Effie!" I exclaim in surprise and delight. "I didn't know you were going to make it." I'd sent her an invitation as a long shot, never once thinking she would come. My eyes immediately scan the crowd for any sign of publicity, but it appears she is off duty and solely here as a friend. My shoulders relax.

"Oh, look at you." Effie beams as she extends her arms and lets me pull her into a hug.

Naturally, I scoff at her comment. Flour has left white smears about the front of my shirt and even in a few spots on my pants. And, no doubt, I have hardened batter in my hair. I'm surely an unsightly visual, but there's no time to change now that so many people have already arrived. "You are too kind," I tell her gravely. I give her an extra squeeze for comfort before I pull away. "I'm so glad you could make it."

"Yes, well," she daintily clears her throat, "I apologize profusely for not sending word ahead of time." The mere thought of such terrible manners deeply offends her. "I thought I would be tied up, but my schedule cleared at the last moment and I found myself on the next hover out."

A change in her schedule must have left her an absolute wreck, but she looks pulled together. I chat as much as I can but find myself drawn to check in on the kitchen soon. As I move to open the door, Greasy Sae pushes it open with her back. Taking a few steps back, I give her room to pass through the entryway and swing around to face me. She startles a bit, but quickly recovers. "Don't be silly," she tells me as I move to pass her into the kitchen. "Go socialize with the guests. Hazelle and I will handle the kitchen for the rest of the evening."

I protest that she doesn't have to, but she insists. I remind her about icing the cake, and she reluctantly lets me pass as she carries a tray of appetizers toward the sitting area.

As soon as I'm done icing the cake, Hazelle shoos me from the kitchen. I thank her profusely, but she waves it off without a thought. As I return to the guests, I am filled with intense emotion. These two women have spent the entire day away from their families to help me with something as trivial as a party. I don't think I'll ever deserve them. Especially not Hazelle. She doesn't owe me anything, and yet here she is. Here they both are.

Deep in thought, I'm jarred roughly back to reality as a shout rings through the house. "Surprise!" everyone yells collectively. Shocked by the outburst, I look up to see Peeta standing in the front doorway. He looks surprised indeed. With a wide grin, he laughs aloud. His eyes rove the room until they land on me. When they do, he gestures me towards him with a few successive curls of his index finger.

Like a guilty child, I weave my way through the crowd. I feel everyone's eyes on me as they watch with bated breath, wondering what his reaction will be. I sink a bit into my heels just as I reach him. "Happy birthday?" I try. Several people close by chuckle.

"Well, aren't you the crafty one," he replies, pulling me to him and pressing a kiss to my forehead. "Not to be rude to all our guests, but I do hope there will be dinner at this party. It's been a long day and I'm famished."

Laughter fills the air, defusing the slight tension. Peeta turns to greet the closest person as soon as he closes the door behind him. I move to pull away, but his arm wraps around my waist and holds me gently at his side. For a moment I worry. I hadn't stopped to think what effect a crowd of this size might have on him. Though Snow turned very few memories of this house against Peeta when he was hijacked, a crowd always elevates his internal struggle. Conscious that a gathering might not have been the best idea, I pay close attention as I stand beside him and chat with our guests.

As fortune would have it, the evening passes without incident. Everyone eats until a few top buttons have been released on pants and then someone hollers for cake. Several sets of eyes zero in on me and I wonder who spilled the beans about the cake. It was supposed to be a secret. Even now, I'm not sure I want to bring it out in public. But at the mention of cake, Peeta claps his hands together once, then proceeds to rub them together enthusiastically. "My favorite part about getting older."

Hands find their way to my back. Sensing my hesitation, guests usher me towards the kitchen. My feet propel me forward, and then I give in. Though Haymitch's quip this afternoon rings clear in my mind, I highly doubt the cake will be so bad as to poison anyone. I have yet to prefect anything in the kitchen at the bakery, but I've come a long way and I'm fairly certain I remembered all the ingredients to the correct portions this time.

Hazelle holds the door for me as I carry the cake out of the kitchen. I catch the look in her eyes, and it makes me involuntarily blush. Her gaze is knowing but far from judgmental. Like the way my mother used to look at me before my father died in the mines and the world forever flipped upside down.

I realize as I set the cake in the middle of the table and everyone gathers around to sing a short birthday tune that I haven't had many causes to celebrate for most of my life. Even when my father was alive, we were too poor to splurge on such delicacies as cake. And though I had always assumed Peeta ate like a prince, I know now that he probably hadn't gotten much in the way of birthday desserts growing up either. I have so much to be thankful for now that it pushes aside any bitterness I still carry with me about my circumstances growing up.

As everyone reaches the last stanza of the song, Peeta leans into me. When his lips touch the skin of my temple, I close my eyes. I vow to memorize this moment, to lock it away in my mind. I promise to hold it close, for when the darkness tries to creep in.

Haymitch is the only one who has the heart to tell me that the cake isn't very good. He takes pride in the words, even as he shovels another bite into his mouth and talks through the crumbs. Effie tsk-tsk's and shakes her head at his rudeness. It seems to do the trick, for he closes his trap and remains silent on the subject for the rest of the evening.

The congregation slowly says their good-byes until just Hazelle and Greasy Sae remain to help clean up. I insist they leave the mess to me, that they've done more than enough already, but they won't hear of it. I also strike out on convincing Effie to stay the evening since she missed the last train. It seems Haymitch's offer is more enticing.

Hazelle and Greasy Sae work with lightning speed that can only come with years of practice. I do my best to keep up but feel like I haven't come close to carrying my share of the burden from this evening. I thank them over and over again as I load them up with all the leftovers they can carry, leaving just the last few wedges of cake.

As I see them to the door and say good night, Peeta moves to the kitchen island. When I return to the kitchen to find him, he's helping himself to another slice of cake. "This is amazing," he says, a few crumbs falling from his mouth as he speaks.

Stealing the fork from his hand, I break away a piece and try it myself for the first time. My face slightly contorts as I swallow. The dry mixture catches in my throat and takes two more tries to swallow. "You are such a liar," I tell him as I hand him back his fork.

"No, I insist," he says as he takes another bite. His Adam's apple bobs and I wonder if he's having the same difficulty choking it down. "It's perfect. Thank you for the surprise dinner. And the cake. Especially the cake," he adds with emphasis, which only proves he's trying too hard to sell it. "It's the best birthday present I've ever gotten." Setting down the fork, his hands find my waist and pull me gently to him as he swivels the barstool to face me.

"I haven't even given you your present yet," I confess. Dropping my hands onto his shoulders, my fingers absentmindedly stroke the sides of his neck. "Did we actually manage to surprise you?"

With a devilish smirk he confesses, "Almost."

Exhaling a frustrated sigh, I shake his shoulders slightly in disappointment. "We tried so hard!" I complain, though I know it isn't his fault. "What gave us away?"

"Some of the girls in the bakery this afternoon were complaining that they didn't get invited to the party." Leave it to his doting fans to ruin it. "But you almost got away with it," he reminds me.

So close, but yet so far.

"So," he draws out the word into three syllables. "If none of this was my birthday present, what is?"

"It's up in the bedroom if you want to come see," I tell him.

His eyebrows perk up and a large grin splits across his face. "Really?" he asks. Drawing me closer, his pulls me down into a kiss. "Do I get to unwrap it first?" he whispers as he pulls away a fraction of an inch. His breath smells of cake and sweet wine. It makes my skin shiver.

"I don't think I wrapped it," I tell him, trying to think back. Then I recognize the way he's studying me. Gasping, I jerk back from his grasp, my cheeks flaming red in embarrassment. "No," I insist, sputtering over the word. "That's not what I meant. I mean, I guess I implied it, but honestly, I have a box under the bed-"

He laughs, pulling me back. "Katniss," he tries to say with all seriousness but his expression cracks before he can even finish my name. "It's not like we haven't done it before." With a devilish smirk, he adds, "A lot."

"I know," I tell him defensively. "I just... I didn't mean…" Words are a constant struggle. "I would never suggest…" Giving up, I sigh and just look at him.

That stupid grin still covers his face. I want to smack it off. I want to shove him and tell him that it isn't funny. But that would only make it worse and make me look more naive than I already feel. So I clamp my lips together.

"There is a box hidden under the bed upstairs with your present in it," I try again after pausing to collect myself. "If you would like to open it. Or I could just send it back on the next train."

Standing up, he spins me around and starts to push me towards the door. "Lead the way," he insists, pausing only for a moment to lean in and peck my neck sweetly.

A hand crafted box is waiting upstairs. Inside is a full set of paints and new brushes. His eyes light up when he sees it. Immediately, he proclaims to love it. I warn that they were expensive, even by our new standards, and that these particular paints should not be used for body art. He laughs and says he cannot make any promises. The wicked gleam in his eye tells me I shouldn't have even brought up the idea, that I've laid a trap for myself. And when I wish him happy birthday and tell him I love him, he pulls me to him and I willingly let myself fall into his trap.


	59. The Locket

"Looks like I'm going to have to hire a second set of hands at the bakery," he says.

I'm so relaxed his words startle me. I'd forgotten he was lying beside me. "Oh?" I ask, my eyes trying to find their place again on the page of the book of poems in my hands. A borrowed gift from Hazelle, I handle it carefully. My finger lightly traces the slightly uneven lines of writing as I try to pick up where I left off.

With a loud yawn, he gives a sound to affirm. I hear the scratching of his palm against the light stubble on his cheeks. He's been working so hard lately, he hasn't taken the time to shave since his birthday.

"I hope you weren't banking on this pair of hands," I respond, finally locating my last reading position. Though now that we've struck up conversation, I hold my place with my finger and focus on his words.

"Would not dream of it," he replies. "A mud pie, after all, does not actually call for real mud."

"Well now, that's just where people are missing out, I tell you."

"I put a sign up in the front window this morning."

This statement catches my full attention. Pulling the ribbon out from between the cover of the notebook and the first page, I mark my place and carefully close the cover. "Already?" I ask, surprised. Peeta is usually so methodical about everything related to the bakery. It's hard to believe he already took a step toward a change.

"Mmmhmmm. You wouldn't believe the number of inquiries I got today alone."

"And, pray tell, how many of them came from beautiful teenaged girls?" I ask.

"Quite a few, actually. More than half." He pauses, as if mentally calculating. "More than three quarters actually."

Rolling my eyes, I set the book on the nightstand. I'm too tired to focus on it anyway, and now my curiosity has been peaked. "How many of them did you interview?"

"Why, Katniss Everdeen," he says in a conspiring tone, "is that jealousy I hear?"

"You hear no such thing," I retort promptly, though it is a bit of a lie. I'm not stupid, after all. It only takes a quarter of an hour of sitting at a table in the bakery to catch the wistful way they all watch Peeta, fantasy dreams sparkling in their eyes.

"You," he says, shifting closer and placing a kiss on the exposed shoulder that has slipped out of the neckline of his shirt I'm wearing, "are a terrible liar."

"I am a masterful liar," I object. "Perhaps I fake the awful lies so you do not catch the real ones."

He thinks about it for a moment as his hand reaches for my waist, lifting the hem up to touch my skin. His hands are as warm as my own skin. Everything in the room feels warm tonight. The slight wind from earlier this afternoon has died completely, and the open window does little to cool us. "No," he finally decides, "you aren't that talented."

I scoff at his teasing. "Thanks."

My eyes flutter halfway between opened and closed as his fingers trace ever so lightly across my skin. His fingertips are the wings of butterflies, flitting gracefully along the surface. It was another hot day out, but it feels like the weather is gradually taking the turn towards the cooler offerings of fall. It cannot come soon enough, though I know by winter I will be wishing for the kiss of the sun.

When his hand touches the locket dangling around my neck, he pauses. His body shifts slightly on the bed behind me, some of his weight pressing into my back as he leans to look over my shoulder. I don't usually wear it, but I had happened across it this morning and, on a whim, pulled it on. "I didn't know you still had this." His fingers trace the raised metal bars designed into the cover.

"Of course." His thumb toys with the clasp but leaves it closed. It causes me to wonder what he's thinking. About Gale, Prim, my mother, or something or someone else entirely. His own family, perhaps. That he had been right, in the arena. That no one would be left to miss him. That I would still have people who loved me.

Though perhaps he hadn't been right about everything.

Following my own thoughts, I slide my nail into it and pop the locket open when he decides not to. He has the right to see. I think it might ease any worries clouding his mind. Hoisting myself up into a seated position, my back protesting after the long day it's had, I gather the locket and the chain and pull it off over my head. Collecting it in the palm of my hand, I gently hand it over.

Only one of the original pictures occupies the locket. Prim. Always and forever, Prim will remain. But the photo of Gale has been replaced with a photo of Peeta and myself, taken one night after dinner on a whim. The angle of the photograph is tilted, as Haymitch had been too lazy to drag himself from the couch to set the camera properly. The one of my mother I replaced with a small copy of my parents' wedding photo. I toyed with the idea of putting a photo of Haymitch or Effie in its place. After all, I see both of them more often than I see my mother. But I haven't the heart to remove her completely.

"You are part of my family now," I tell him softly, almost embarrassed by the proclamation though it's been the truth for so long now. I wouldn't have survived the Games if it hadn't been for Peeta. I wouldn't have survived the grief after the War if it wasn't for him. I would likely still be a dirty and angry ball of grime curled in a ball on the couch, living off of Greasy Sae's kindness alone. And even at the time I had realized that kindness wouldn't last forever if I didn't try.

I'm trying now. Every single day. I find reasons to want to get out of bed. I find reasons to want to make it to the next day. A lot of the reasons are thanks to Peeta. "I hope I've told you that. I hope you realize it," I tell him when he doesn't respond.

A flash of struggle crosses his face. It lasts only a moment and then disappears without a trace, but I'm certain I saw it. I try not to dwell on it and wonder what it means. It's been a long day, and I don't want to let my brain start down a dark path for no justified reason. So I revert back to our previous conversation. "And I'm not jealous," I insist. "I just think you might be better off hiring someone like Greasy Sae than a young twit with no experience. That's all."

His mouth returns to a smile I prefer. "Whatever you say," he concedes as he pulls me closer.


	60. Proposition

The clearing of a throat startles me. Looking up I see a woman I don't recognize, which seems nearly impossible. Though the population of District Twelve has slowly risen, our population is nowhere near what it used to be. While some have returned, very few new faces ever show up. Unlike some of the other districts, Twelve doesn't have much to offer now that the mines have shut down and we have little in the way of commerce. The new medical plant is still on schedule to open, but it will be next spring at the earliest.

The unfamiliar face breaks me out of the trance I've been sitting in. "Hi," I start, having no idea which way the conversation will steer. She's my age, maybe a few years old. So skinny her clothes hang off her body and arms like a bag. Plain looking, but beautiful in her own way. I know, immediately in the moment, that if she breaks into questions about Peeta, I will snap. I've been working on my jealously, but it hasn't gone well so far.

She seems too nervous to speak, and I'm not in the mood to strike up a conversation myself. I've had enough of the girls who come in to interview with Peeta to work in the bakery. Most of them know less about baking than I do, and that's saying something. They sit, they gawk, and they giggle at every word he says. Then they have the nerve to come over and try to chat me up, as if I'll put in a good word for them if they play nice. It hasn't worked once yet. I wish they'd take a hint.

"Right then," I mumble under my breath, returning to my cheesy bun. The rain outside forced me to seek shelter, and the combination of a day wasted mixed with the high humidity brought on by the afternoon showers has left me in a foul mood. If she wants to sit there and stare, so be it.

"S…sorry," she stammers. Glancing up again, I see the way her fingers nervously toy with the run on the hem of her shirt. Her brown hair and dark eyes mimic my own, and I know she grew up in the Seam, even if I don't recognize her.

"Sorry about what?" I ask, my impatience getting the better of me.

I catch Peeta's eye from behind the counter. He's giving me a pointed look, clear as day. 'Be nice', it warns. I level my eyes into a glare at him, savagely biting a chunk out of my bun. Then I remember that he's the one who feeds me my endless supply of cheesy buns, and I try to crank up the civility the best I can. "Is there something I can help you with?" I ask when she still seems incapable of speech.

"We're looking for a music teacher for the younger children," she says in a rush, the words tripping over each other as they stumble out of her mouth. "The school opens in the fall and we're having difficulty filling some of the positions. Music, in particular."

Well this is certainly a turn of events. She's barely managed to say a word so far, and now she's a gusher of over sharing information. "I'm afraid I don't have any recommendations," I tell her. Anyone who knows me, or knows of me, knows I'm not the socialite of the town. I go out of my way to avoid the gatherings. I get stared at and whispered about enough as it is without volunteering for the attention.

"Um…" the shyness returns as quickly as it escaped. Her eyes dart down at her feet, her worn leather boots knocking together nervously. Her hands tremble. I almost feel bad except she's the one pestering me. "We… we, uh, we were actually hoping you might consider it." The words are mumbled through lips as her eyes stare holes into the ground.

Equal parts surprised and shocked, I laugh. Thinking it's a joke someone put her up to, I look up towards Peeta to see if he's chuckling as well. But he looks confused and slightly concerned at my outburst, so I turn back to the girl. "I'm sorry," I apologize. Her hair covers a majority of her face, but the part I can see is burning scarlet. "Are you serious?" I ask, still stunned.

"We knew it was a long shot," she admits to the floor, "but I promised we would at least ask. Everyone heard you sing in the Games and in the Propos. And the kids you went to school with say you sound even better in person."

I can't help but laugh again. I'd rather get shot with one of my own arrows than willingly sing in public and this girl is asking me to do it as a job? I almost ask her what the job pays, but then I decide I don't need to be a complete ass about it. "I'm afraid I'm about the last person you'd want," I tell her honestly.

"That may be true," she admits, "but as of right now, you're the only option we have left if we wish to have a music program at all for the school."

"I don't know anything about instruments," I protest.

"Even if we only teach them to sing." She must see a kink in my armor, the smallest chance that I might change my mind. With each sentence she speaks, she seems to grow surer of herself and her request. "Anything is better than nothing. It's going to take a lot of work the first year, but I promise it'll be worth it. Most of the kids already see you as an idol," I grimace, "and we think you might be able to get them to pay attention when they otherwise wouldn't care at all."

I don't want to be an idol. I'm certainly not a role model. Kids shouldn't look up to me or want to be me. Peeta, maybe. Prim, yes. Gale, definitely not. And I happen to fall into the same category with him in this instance. But she looks so desperate, clinging to the last shred of hope she's holding. It makes it awfully difficult to turn her down. "Can I think about it?" I ask, plucking at my cheesy bun though I've lost all signs of appetite.

"Yes!" she exclaims, her voice high pitched and shrill. "Take all the time you need. And even if you can't do it on a regular basis and only want to come in when it fits into your schedule. We'll take whatever you can offer."

"I'll think about it," I repeat. As her eyes begin to shine, I feel the need to clarify, "But I'm not making any promises."

"Of course," she says. But her grin is so wide that I think, somehow, I've already lost this argument to the girl who couldn't even speak in the first place.


	61. Teaching

He laughs at dinner when I tell him about the conversation with the jittery girl. Shaking his head as he pulls a loaf of bread from the oven, he can't do anything but try not to mock me. Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I bite back a retort. I know he's had a difficult day, especially since he has yet to find feasible help for the bakery, but I get teased enough by Haymitch. And I put up with a lot of what seems like flirtation from Peeta with the young, female patrons of his fine establishment.

"It's not funny," I insist, chopping the stem off the strawberry on the cutting board with far more force than necessary. My fingers tighten around the handle, but I force them to release. I also want to tell Peeta that he doesn't need to bake when he gets home. But we've gone down that path before, and he never seems to listen, so I let it go tonight. We have enough to argue about as it is.

"It's a little funny," he says, trying to get me to admit the same.

I refuse with a slight shake of my head as I toss the strawberry into the salad bowl and reach for the next one. "Crazy thing is… I almost feel like doing it," I confess though I still hardly believe it. From the shocked expression on Peeta's face, he doesn't believe it either. "If they are coming to me of all people," I explain, "then they have to be desperate. _That_ desperate. And… well, I feel bad. For the kids," I add, just so there isn't any doubt.

"Right. For the kids. Because you love kids." His mouth smirks and I throw the next strawberry at his face. Mittened hands holding the loaf pan as he sets it down on the burner of the stove, he has no way to shield his face. It hits him squarely in the face, but he does prevent it from falling on top of the bread.

"I don't hate kids," I defend.

"You just don't want any of your own."

My lips purse. Though it's a topic I exhausted with Gale, back when we actually talked about things, it isn't something I speak about much now. Peeta's brought it up a few times, when Greasy Sae's granddaughter's been here or after getting a letter from Annie about Sam. Peeta wants a litter of kids. Since he grew up with siblings, plural, I can understand why. But I'm still not entirely convinced that the calm period of history we now find ourselves in will last. It feels like just yesterday that interim President Coin has all the living tributes gathered in a room, voting on whether we ought to send Capitol children into the next Hunger Games. What Plutarch said after I killed Coin still rings strong in my mind. We humans have such terrible memories when it comes to repeating the past. And I still don't know whether I could ever bring a child into a world where that possibly has even the slightest chance of existing.

"Relax," Peeta says softly. His chest touches the back of my shoulder blade as he leans in over my side. Hand catching my wrist, he pulls my hand to his mouth and plucks the strawberry out of my fingers with his teeth. Swallowing after a few chews, he presses a wet and sticky kiss to my cheek before pulling away. "There was nothing passive in my meaning." He must see the gears turning in my head, the panic in my eyes, the fight or flight wrestling for control of my body.

"They asked me to help with the arts program last week," he adds a moment later, catching me completely off guard. He hasn't mentioned anything of the sort, but apparently he's been sitting on an offer for a week.

"And?" I ask when he fails to elaborate. Grabbing the last strawberry from the wicker basket, I prep it for the salad.

Shrugging his shoulders, he leans back against the counter and stifles a yawn. The dark circles rimming his eyes have returned. I worry, though I don't dare say anything. Especially not since he's been doing so well lately. I have this irrational, or so I hope, fear that his lack of sleep coupled with the increased strain at the bakery is going to cause an episode. So far, it hasn't happened. But the pessimist inside me refuses to write off the idea.

"I told them I'd love to, but I have to find someone to help out around the bakery first. Maybe before the school year starts, but I doubt it."

I can't remember the last time I saw Peeta paint. I'll have to see if I can entice him this weekend, if he manages to take a few hours away. I have a dozen questions flitting around in my head, but I know that each one runs the risk of coming back to the topic of children. And that topic is as taboo as they come right now. Instead, I toss the strawberry into the bowl. Wiping my hands on the kitchen towel, I pick the bowl up off the counter and head to the dining table. Following my lead, Peeta moves as well, and we let the topic lie for the time being.


	62. First Day (Fall)

My first day of teaching reminds me of my first day of school. My mother had been busy with baby Prim, so my father walked me to school. With an empty bag slung over my shoulder, I'd clutched his hand and walked through town, upset that I was getting dirt all over my shoes before I even got there. My mother had braided my hair on either side of my head, and she'd sewn a special dress for the occasion.

When we reached the school, I refused to let go of my father's hand. I begged and pleaded for him to stay with me. I told him there would be an empty seat in the classroom he could use, I was sure of it. He, in turn, told me he had to go to his school. But never to fear, for he would always be right there in my heart. He thumped his fingers against my heart, then chucked me under the chin to make me smile. As I grew older and he continued the tradition of walking me to school on the first day, I realized what pride he took in the tradition. Each year he went to get strides to shower and launder his clothes to look his finest for me, before heading off to the mines for the day.

So as I leave the house with my bag holding only a journal of poems and songs I've written down over the past two months, I head to Haymitch's house. When he answers the door, I ask if he'd like to walk to the school with me. It's an odd request, but it feels fitting. While he wasn't the best, most sober mentor ever, he kept us alive. In an ironic way, he's the closest thing I have left to family. He must sense the importance behind the invite, because he actually agrees.

I debate taking Sweetheart with me, but decide against it. Though I'm sure the children would love to see and pet her, she'd likely only be a distraction and I doubt a school yard is the best place for her to spend the day grazing.

Haymitch and I walk silently a few paces apart, but his presence helps calm my first day jitters. I'm still dubious about the idea of teaching, but the mere fact that Haymitch hasn't poked fun at my decision since I made it suggests it could be a worthwhile use of my time. For once, I can try to be a little less selfish and help mold this world into a place where I would want to raise a child of my own.

When we reach the school yard, we depart with a nod each. But as I reach to open the front door of the recently reconstructed school house, I hear Haymitch grunt a good luck. Coming from him, it speaks volumes. With a thank you of my own, I duck my head and push inside.

It's nothing like I remember. Of course, my school was burnt to the ground. They weren't able to salvage a single bit of rubble and were forced to rebuild the school from scratch. It was smaller than the one I remembered, but perhaps that was just a matter of perspective. I'm taller now, and the children bustling through the narrow corridor seem smaller than I could have ever been.

I poke my head into the first room I reach, unsure of where to go. The woman standing at the blackboard in the front of the room hushes the school children when she sees me and ushers me in. "We have a very special guest today," she announces to the class, waving me further into the depths of the room as I hesitate. "Miss Katniss Everdeen is here to teach us some music today."

Dozens of pairs of eyes turn to stare at me. Each face wears a familiar look of awe and amazement. An excited chatter fills the room. It takes the teacher a moment to calm everyone back down. "We will be on our best behavior today," she tells rather than asks. "And you will listen to what Miss Everdeen has to say."

As I reach the head of the room, my eyes lock onto a young girl seated in the front row of small desks. Her dark blond hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, but strands of it stick out in every direction, pulled free from the ribbon fighting to hold on. Her shoes are dirty, and a smudge of dirt streaks her cheek, probably from recess in the yard. But what causes my throat to seize is the way her shirt hangs half tucked in and half pulled out of her pants. At first glance, she reminds me so much of Prim that it's physically painful. At second glance, I realize it was a huge mistake to agree to do this. I'm not ready to immerse myself into the world again. I've been in the room less than five minutes, and already my chest aches from the memory of my sister.

I don't realize I spoke aloud until the teacher corrects me. "Her name is Sarah, actually," she says, motioning to the girl seated in front of me. Only then do I know I whispered my sister's name. Desperately, I want to flee from the room. To crawl back into my bed and start the day over again. But there's no hiding away anymore. Though Prim didn't look like she was from the Seam, she definitely belonged to our district. I see snapshots of her in people I pass in the street or who come into the bakery. She will always linger here and hiding won't change the ghosts.

It's a struggle, but I make it through the lesson. It takes all my strength to pull myself together, but I muster the strength. The girl who looks like Prim, Sarah, has such a sweet, soft voice that my heart aches. But there's happiness too there, in the deepest part of my chest. If I can see parts of my sister in others, it will help her memories and her legacy live on. Her legacy isn't a bad thing at all, I remind myself as I flip the page in my notebook and recite the first stance of the next song for the class to repeat.


	63. Cake (Winter)

When I was younger, time lasted forever. I'd sit at home all day on the couch, waiting for my father to return from the mines. Hours stretched endlessly; days felt like years. Even in the Games and during the War, it seemed the end would never come. It was a fight to make it to the end of each and every day, yet I was never entirely sure the next day would come.

Time races by now at breakneck speed. I'm not sure when the shift occurred, but it came swift and unseen. I wake up in the mornings and whole seasons have past while I slept. Fall turns to winter in the morning, and then summer comes again at dusk. There are days now when I don't even have the luxury of time to think about Prim. Something will trigger a memory of her, and I'll realize I haven't thought of her in days. A pit opens up in my stomach and guilt plagues my heart. As if, one day, I might put her behind me entirely. Like she might somehow cease to exist. It's an absurd thought. She will always exist, if nowhere else than in my heart. Even when that blasted cat finally dies and it's just me and Peeta in the house, we will never forget.

But somedays, it feels like a possibility. I wonder if that's what it means to feel happy. To suspend the darkest parts of your heart in the shadows where they no longer exist. Then you blink, and they escape into the sands of time that fly by at the speed of light.

Hazelle's burst into the bakery in a tizzy of excitement rips me from the monotony of the days and jerks the fast pace of the world to a screeching halt. Flinging the door wide, the clinking miniature bell Peeta's assistant insisted would be quaint but is a horrible nuisance of annoyance clatters against the glass in a racket. "Cake!" she exclaims, the word spreading to the dusty far corners of the room. The collective of patrons, myself included, looks up from our plates, our steaming cups of hot chocolate and coffee, and our letters and books. "Cake!" she cries happily, almost deliriously.

"I have cake in the back," Peeta offers as he glances over the top of the glass display cases with a crooked grin.

Vehemently, she shakes her head. "Wedding cake. I need a wedding cake, similar to the one you made for Annie and Finnick."

The air collapses in my lungs. I wait for Peeta to back against the wall, for his hands to cling to the edge of the countertop. I wait for the muttering to begin. Instead, he wipes his hands on the front of his apron before scratching the back of his head as he processes her words. "Who's the lucky man?" he asks, calm as the softly falling snow outside. I realize Hazelle isn't even wearing a coat. She must be freezing.

"Gale," she says breathlessly. Peeta looks immediately to me. My eyes grow a little wider and I give a fraction of a shrug. I let my confusion mirror his own. There's a feeling settling in my stomach, unwelcomed and shameful. I force it down while I watch Hazelle, trying desperately not to give anything away. But looking at her only makes the feeling worse. "He just called to inform me that he's getting married. Can you believe it? My Gale. I never thought the day would come. Well, not after…" she trails off, and I can feel attention shift to me as the others fill in the remainder of her sentence.

With tight lips, I bring my mug up and take a sip to hide my grimace. I guess not many people bought into the story of us being cousins back in the day. Moreover, every aspect of my personal life was apparently public knowledge back when I was the face of the Games and the revolution.

"That's great," Peeta says, and he sounds like he means it. He probably does. There isn't a mean bone in his body. If Gale were here, Peeta would clasp him on the back and congratulate him.

"Now that people have started to migrate since the end of the war, I guess the new tradition is for the couple to wed in the husband's home district. So they'll hold the ceremony here, and I want only the best for my daughter to be. The wedding won't be until the spring, so I do hope that will be enough time for you to be able to whip up something perfect for the occasion."

People are voicing their congratulations in a steady stream of voices that blend together in a cacophonic noise. Peeta remains silent, his answer unknown. His eyes lock with mine, asking for my permission. As if baking Gale's wedding cake would be an act of treason against me. As if I would care. I don't.

But I can't ignore the look Hazelle gives me. I try not to let any emotion show, giving a tiny nod of approval. Of course Peeta should make the wedding cake. He's the only baker in town, and his decorating abilities with icing are unparalleled. He will make an amazing art piece of a cake, and people will likely spend more time marveling over it than the bride's wedding dress.

Gale getting married. Gale putting down roots in another district. The crazy thing is that it doesn't bother me, at all, like I thought it might. I'm not sure how I thought I would feel when this day came. I guess I had hoped that I would get married first. That Gale would have to hear the news from someone else about me, and not the other way around. Which is ridiculous because to most of the world, Peeta and I are already married. It's a petty, fleeting thought, pushed away as I smile at Hazelle's excitement.

It isn't jealousy, this feeling kicking in my stomach, I feel as Hazelle gushes to anyone willing to listen to all the details Gale already shared. If anything, it's sadness. Listening to the way Hazelle chatters in excitement, I'm disappointed my mother will never act this way for me. Though we write and talk, far more than we used to when she first packed up and moved to Four, I don't feel like a part of my mother's life anymore. I was forced to grow up when everything went sideways and she wasn't able to protect me. Now there's nothing left to protect me from, and she's starting over fresh with a clean slate. There's no room for me in that new life.

Feeling melancholy, I set my mug down and slowly stand. Everyone else continues to chat and gossip, but I'm silent as I weave between the tables and chairs to reach Hazelle. When I approach, everyone quiets. I don't mean to draw the attention, I have enough of that already in the sideways glances cast my way, but I can't escape their notice. Without a word, knowing anything my stupid mouth will say would likely ruin the moment, I lean into her instead. Wrapping my arms around her, I pull her close and hold her tight. The tears beg to fall, but I squeeze them back. I will not rain my tears upon her joy. A mother has the right to celebrate the engagement of her child, and a child has the right to feel that strength of love. She hugs me with a vibrant glee. I try to convey everything I'm feeling in that single embrace without my blasphemous mouth ruining it.

She seems to understand. "Thank you, sweetheart," she says to the side of my head. The term of endearment reminds me of Haymitch. I can only guess what he'll have to say when he hears the news. I doubt it'll be nice, but I have a feeling it will cheer me up. Haymitch in a sour mood always carries that wonderful side effect these days.


	64. Ceremony (Spring)

The woods are oddly quiet. As if they sense my mood and don't want to disrupt me from deep thought. Not that my thoughts are deep. If anything, they are shallow. A little spiteful, and perhaps a bit wishful. But hardly deep.

My bow hangs from my hand as I walk slowly. I don't stalk through the woods today. Truthfully, I'm not in the mood to hunt. But with all the noise and excitement as the town gears up for the ceremony, I needed to get away. Not even Peeta could distract me today. He's caught up with last minute details with the cake and the pastries he made for the feast. He tried his best to converse when I showed up this morning, but it was clear his head was elsewhere. So I brought myself elsewhere, to the one place I knew no one would bother me.

Or so I thought. As I step over a fallen log and turn the corner to follow the worn path through the foliage, I stop short. My arm draws up out of reflex as my other arm reaches behind my shoulder for an arrow. I have the tail of the arrow notched and am starting to draw the bow by the time I recognize the silhouette standing between the trunks of the trees.

"Didn't expect to see you out here," I comment. My bow is slow to lower as I keep my eyes trained on him. I'm not entirely sure his presence is a welcomed one.

"What?" he asks, a mixture of disbelief and snark. "You going to shoot me?" His turns to face me squarely, exposing a larger target of his body.

I shrug my tense shoulders as much as they will move in my stance. I tease, "Haven't quite decided yet."

"Better be quick," he replies without missing a beat. "Your arm's likely to stiffen if you hold that pose much longer."

My bluff called, I lower my bow and return the arrow to the quiver. "What are you doing out here?" These aren't his woods anymore. Haven't been for a long time, and likely never will again. "Don't you have a million different things you should be doing right now?" I wonder how much the groom is expected to do in preparation for a wedding. Finnick's and Annie's was thrown together as a way to rally the rebels; it didn't have nearly the thought and planning that have gone into Gale's. I've never witnessed a fully orchestrated wedding. My curiosity grabs hold though I'd never want the same for myself. Even if I did, there's no way to accomplish it now. Just another freedom of life Snow and the Capitol stripped away.

"I'm sure I've got an earful waiting for me back in town." He leans against a tree and tosses a rock up into the air. Catching it mid fall, he tucks it away into the safety of his palm. "But I needed a break."

"The whole town needs a break. Your mother has planned the event of the century. Her newfound wealth suits her well."

"Of the century?" he asks with a disbelieving scoff. "More like a placeholder event to garner a little attention until you or Peeta do anything out of the ordinary and stir up a ruckus."

Why do we always jab at each other? When did we become so opposed to having a civil conversation without weighed words and bitter remarks weaved through them? Though his words aren't hostile, they aren't cordial either. Everything we say carries an edge, and a tense weight sits between us, refusing to budge.

"Yes, well," I decide that two can play his game, if that's the route he wants to take. "I'm just glad you finally stopped dating my doppelgangers. Though you'd better be sure, for Cressida's sake."

He tosses the rock again. This time, he makes no move to catch it. It clatters to a halt on the dirt between us. "Not everything is about you, Katniss." Though plainly spoken, his words bite with an undertone of malice. It longer fazes me like it should, like it used to.

"No, I'm sure it was purely coincidence," I say sarcastically. "But I'm glad for you. I hope you've found the happiness you've been chasing. And the answers you were looking for. With her," I clarify for no one's benefit.

"Oh, I'm sure you are full of good tidings. You've only ever wanted what was best for me."

The woods are too good for any response I could muster. I don't want to taint this place, the only place where we always seemed to sync. The one place where we could forget the horrors that waited on the other side of the fence. But now we're both angry and resentful, and it's too hard to try to reign those feelings back in and repress them.

"I never wanted to hurt you. I'm not the one who designed a trap to kill innocent people that _you_ cared about. I never planned anything against you, Gale. I wanted you to be happy. That's all I ever wanted for you."

"Just so long as it wasn't with you."

I grind my teeth together to keep from screaming in frustration. I'm so tired of this same fight we always come back to. No matter how hard we try, we can't escape it. It is the thing that exists between us, a solid force repelling us from each other, indefinitely. "Congratulations, Gale. I wish you and Cressida the best." Not wanting to get sucked into the same argument, I leave it at that. Turning my back, I head back towards the town to check the snares I set earlier this week.

I refuse to let him get to me anymore. He can act the wounded victim all he wants, but he's not fooling me. He's pledging himself to someone else tomorrow. I'm not responsible for putting the pieces of Gale back together. He destroyed that responsibility when we stood in Snow's mansion and he couldn't give me an answer. I don't owe him that. I don't owe him anything, not anymore. Our debt settled in a plume of smoke and the smell of fire and flesh. Our friendship charred in the ashes, unable to be the phoenix to rise from the flames.

The snares are all empty, though one has been touched. I reset it and move back into the woods, deeper towards the lake. The cover of the trees comforts me, surrounding me in a protective cocoon.

He catches up to me later in the afternoon. Silently, he joins me. He doesn't attempt to say a word and I refuse to apologize for a single thing I said. We spend the rest of the afternoon hunting together, though the silence remains. It's the only way we know how to be with each other anymore. We spot a deer and Gale motions towards it, but I shake my head. Even if I felt like felling it, everyone in town is too busy with preparations to worry about prepping the meet. We stick with quail and the occasional rabbit. We only hunt enough to fill our bags, knowing we won't be needing to eat it for a couple of days at least. With the amount of baking Peeta has done the past week, I doubt I'll be eating anything other than bread and pastries for a solid week or two.

We walk back to town together. Our steps synchronize as we find a balance to the chaos in our hearts and heads. For the first time in a long time, I can make believe we're still friends. Following the old, familiar path out of the woods and through where the fence used to stand, I almost fool myself into believing that we can just go back to the way things were before I entered the Games. If only it were that easy. Not everything about our lives before the rebellion was terrible, and I miss Gale only second to one other.

Peeta sits outside the bakery, watching for me. As he sips from a tall glass of water, I wonder how long he's been waiting. I told him I was heading into the woods when I left this morning, and I didn't expect him to be done at the bakery for another few hours at the least. Though he's usually waiting for me outside to walk home with me now that he's found a suitable pair of hands to help out around the bakery, I figured this afternoon would be the exception. But there he stands, a question in his perked eyebrow as he raises his hand in greeting to Gale.

They say pleasantries quickly, then Gale heads off towards Hazelle's to figure out what else needs to be done. We part without words, but it feels better this way. I prefer the slightly tense air to parting with snide remarks and resentments. "Well," Peeta says as he assesses me, "at least you seem to have made it home in one piece. So it couldn't have been that terrible."

Slinging my bag off my shoulder, I push it into his chest. My shoulder's stiff and if he's going to rattle of Haymitch like remarks the entire way home the least he can do is carry the results of a long day. "Maybe it isn't hopeless after all," I admit reluctantly. And the more I talk as I fill him in on my day during our walk, the more I start to believe it, no matter how unlikely it seems. Perhaps the phoenix will one day rise again, a shadowed version of its former self.


	65. Healing (Fall)

She looks different as she stands on the stage. Still as tall and skinny, true enough. In fact, her physical appearance remains much the same. But there is something about her, something I cannot place. Perhaps it is confidence. Her shoulders are squared, her back perfectly straight. With her hands folded in front of her, she looks every bit the professional in her uniform.

I didn't think the day would ever come. For a long time, I had hoped. Begged and pleaded, more like, for her to snap out of her despair and to rejoin us in the real world. To try. It looks like she has. And though we haven't had the opportunity to speak yet since she arrived, she seems to be doing well for herself. Maybe getting away from Twelve, away from all the memories of everything we've lost, finally helped her come to terms with it. We should all be so lucky.

They wanted me front and center, once again under the spotlight. I ever so politely declined in favor of being one in the crowd. This day, this facility, had nothing to do with me and everything to do with my mother. She deserves the attention, not me.

A hand bumps into my arm. Jostling to the side, I try to give myself a little more space in the gathered crowd. Fingers brush against my elbow, then slide down and curl into mine. Turning my attention from the stage, the sharp retort dies on my lips. "I didn't think you were going to make it," I whisper, leaning in so he can hear me.

"I didn't either," he whispers back, "but here I am." He plants a soft kiss to my cheek before dutifully turning his attention toward the stage. "She looks good."

I'm glad I'm not the only one who noticed. It feels more real when I hear him say it. "Doesn't she?" Entwining my arm in his, I pull his against mine. It doesn't matter how long we're together or how natural it feels, each day I'm able to draw support from the feel of him standing there next to me.

Most of what they say is a publicity stunt and a pat on the back for bringing work to the district. Clean, safe work, they remind us over and over again. As if we need any reminder of how dangerous the mines were. As if the few who survived the mines and the war aren't the ones doubled over in the square with wracking coughs. We don't need reminders from people who used the power we supplied and never once stopped to think at what cost they got it.

The factory isn't a hospital, but it's a first step. There are already excited murmurs that a hospital will surely follow soon on the heels. I suspect everyone will wait to see how the medicine factory produces before committing to any other new projects in the district. We're still the outcasts, though a lot of people credit Twelve, along with Thirteen, to being the spark of the rebellion. Their thanks, however, only stretches so far, their generosity so much.

My mother gives a short, simple speech. She says how good it feels to be home, but I don't buy this sentiment. She looks pained. Returning brings back all the memories she's fought so hard to shove down and forget. The people that follow her are much wordier. My feet begin to step in place as my patience grows thin. The air is crisp, the weather great. The perfect combination for a day spent in the woods, yet I am here. After the opening ceremony finishes, I've promised the remainder of the day to my mother.

My feet still when I remember my primary reason for roping my mother into staying after the ceremony for a day to spend some time together. As much as she brings up me visiting her in Four, she's never once come back home and it was like pulling teeth to get her to agree to spend one night. Then I remember in my excitement and rushed planning that I haven't even asked Peeta yet.

"Peeta?" I try to get his attention without drawing any additional from the bystanders around us.

As soon as I have his attention, I begin to change my mind. In my heart, I know what he's going to say. There isn't a doubt in my mind. As I try to form the words, though, doubt shoves its way in. Clawing at my throat, my heart, the doubt climbs to surface.

It's been like this for the past few months. I'm sick of it. I finally know what I feel, and I refuse to play my own enemy any longer. "You know what you said? A while back," I begin.

He, clearly, does not know what he said. "I've said a lot of things. Several times. Afraid you're going to have to be a little more specific."

"You know the one I mean." I _know_ he knows. We don't mention it often. It hardly ever comes up. But when it does, I clam up. So he brushes it off like it means nothing to him. But I think it means everything.

"Katniss."

"Fine," I huff. "Would you still consider," my voice drops to barely above a whisper, "marrying me?"

"I thought we are married," he teases.

Exasperated at how he seems to want to make this exchange as difficult as possible for me, I warn, "Peeta."

"You know the answer," he tells me. Pulling me tighter against his side, he presses his lips to my ear. Whispers, "Always."

The word sends an excited shiver down my spine.

"How does tonight work for you?"

I've caught him off guard. Shifting to look down at me, I can tell he's trying to decide if I'm pulling his leg or serious. I'm serious, though my heart screams to stop. The fear of rejection clings tightly. I think some of it always will. No matter how long we are together, part of me will always wonder if he'll wake up one morning and realize he can do better.

"That's not funny," he tells me.

Honestly I tell him, "I'm not joking. It'll be small, simple. Just the way you described it to Caesar before the Quarter Quell. We'll have a traditional Twelve ceremony at the house. While my mother is here."

We may not ever talk about anything heavier than the weather or my goat or the medicine facility anymore, but the thought of getting married without my mother present is unthinkable. I wouldn't even begin to imagine it. I've even been letting my hair grow out, so that I might entice her to braid it once more. For old time's sake.

"Katniss." His voice holds the warning this time, still in disbelief.

Turning to face him, my back goes to the stage. For the moment, we're the only people standing here. Cradling his neck in my hands, I shyly smile. Though he's putting up a bit of a fight, I'm no longer afraid of rejection. Peeta's known how our story would end far longer than I have. He realized it long before I did. He's waited so long, would have waited forever. I know he'll say yes, just as he knows that Gale plays no factor in my decision today. No one does but him.

"It's you," I promise beneath the public speeches and dedications. "I think, maybe, on some level, it's always been you," I admit. "Even if I didn't always see it. Even if I tried to ignore it."

"You better not be messing with me." Even as he says it, his hands find my waist and pull me to him. We are two people in a crowd, but we are everything.

"I love you." It's a declaration and a promise. A vow already spoken. I've been his pretend wife for years and, now, I'm ready for it to be real. "Real." I say this last word allowed. It brings a smile to his face. "Always." Another promise, this time from me to him.

When he replies, "Good," for the first time it feels real to me too.


	66. Union

It takes forever to track down. After the ribbon cutting ceremony for the factory, I call in several favors and enlist everyone I can think of to help. To be fair, my options for aid are limited, as the vast majority of people cannot know I'm getting married. The rest, when I approach them, are horrified at my request.

"Katniss," Hazelle chastises in disbelief. "Surely you don't mean to get married in something so…" she trails off, not able to think of an appropriate adjective. "Wouldn't something more-"

"No," I insist, cutting in before she can finish her train of thought. I know it well, and it's something I don't want to think about. Cinna designed a wedding dress for me. Snow paraded me on display, a way to shove his power in my helpless face. I will not wear a fancy white garment made of silk and lace. I will find a red plaid dress, just like the one I wore on the first day of school. Peeta claims that's when he fell in love with me. I'd like for him to remember that feeling, just in case he changes his mind.

The day drags by slowly, a mirage of chores and organized chaos. For something so simple, it takes forever to put together. Caving, I enlist my mother for help. As she marches with pride and purpose into town, I wish I'd done it sooner. She coddles the bolt in the crook of her arm sooner than I can locate it in the piles of unsorted fabrics. As she pays, she shoos me over toward the corner of the shop to get my measurements taken. I protest over my shoulder that I have more than enough money to pay for the fabric myself, but she silences me in a way only a mother can. "Nonsense," she states, as if it is an obvious fact. "Paying for your dress," she omits the word 'wedding' in this public setting, "is the least I can do."

Guilt plagues me as she digs deep into her pockets to pull out the right coins. I wonder how long she worked to earn it. I wonder if she knows I subsidize her food in District Four. The people in charge of distribution assured me they would keep my donation a secret, but surely she must know that she pays a fraction of the cost for her living expenses and food as her fellow citizens in the district. I hope it's enough to help her get by. So she doesn't worry. So she doesn't fade away.

For the next hour, the seamstress, one of the newest additions to the district, pokes and prods me mercilessly with her sharp, pointed nails and her thin but pointed pins. The entire show is a flurry of excitement, though the official reason for a new dress is a special evening planned for Peeta and myself. Which I guess is not entirely a lie. Mother works a magic I never knew she possessed. The seamstress allows her to use the machine in the back. In no time, my mother has also purchased thread and borrowed a pair of scissors. My dress comes together before my eyes, a miracle from a story my mother would have told me and Prim as children.

I choke back tears as I think of my sister. She should be here today. She should be here always, but today the loss strikes twice as deep. An emptiness grows in my heart as the sun passes across the sky. An emptiness that I know Peeta will never fill, no matter how hard he tries. Prim is the only other person I have truly ever loved unconditionally. I cannot even say the same for my mother, working so hard to give me the dress I desire without once commenting it should be white. I wonder if our thoughts align. I wonder if her heart breaks as well.

"There," she proclaims some time later. Letting out a deep sigh, she places her cold hands on my shoulders and slowly turns me to face the mirror. I promised not to peak until she finished, and I've lived up to my promise. "What do you think?" she asks softly, studying my portrait alongside me, her hands resting on my shoulders.

"Mom." I don't breathe. I cannot remember the last time I called her that. I cannot remember the last time I looked so beautiful. For once, I don't look like a broken remainder of a girl. I don't look like a piece of governmental propaganda, dressed sharp to look strong or dressed down to seem vulnerable. I look young and beautiful. I look together, whole. I look like a girl who is going to marry the boy she loves. "It's perfect."

"Right," she says with a curt nod of her head in agreement. I can't help but smile. We wear our emotions, but we don't voice them. "Which leaves your hair. We must do something about it." With an air of authority, she snaps her fingers, calling attention from the closest shop hand. With brisk words, my mother acquires a brush.

"I was rather hoping you would braid it," I confess.

"It would be my honor."

Swallowing a lump in my throat, I add, "Perhaps in two braids. One on either side, like when I was younger." I don't add like Prim's hair, when I volunteered as tribute to take her place. Like Prim, until she grew so fast I couldn't keep up, so fast she slipped through my fingers when I wasn't paying attention.

"Of course." She pulls the brush through my hair, over and over. Careful not to pull on the knots, she takes her time to untangle before she parts it down the middle and begins to braid. I watch her reflection toil in silence. When she's done, she squeezes my shoulders again. "Peeta will love it," she promises.

"Thank you," I tell her, hoping she catches the multi-layers of my thanks.


	67. The Toasting

My mother and I meet Peeta outside the bakery as the bell tower in town square chimes. It's the newest addition to town, favored by some more than others. For me, it reminds me of standing on an explosive, waiting for a clock to tick down. The clanging of the bells reminds me of the boom of a cannon signaling a death for one, a victory for another. It reminds me of the bloodbath at the cornucopia, my first introduction to the Games.

Precisely on time, Peeta slips through the front door of the bakery, shutting it quietly behind him and turning the lock as the last toll of the bell chimes. The ringing resonates in my ears as my hands ball into fists. I count to ten, a shallow breath between each number. I only begin to relax when he joins my side, slipping his arm around my waist in a motion that is second nature by now. The solid feel of him beside me calms me the way my counting cannot today. My nerves remain a pinched, unraveled wreck of a ball, but at least the muddle in my mind clears.

"Ready?" he asks. He cannot mask the smile as he poses the question. I ponder for a moment whether I ought to pinch him, hard, just to prove this is real. Turning to my mother, he adds politely, "Good evening Mrs. Everdeen."

"Peeta," she replies with an inclination of her head and a worn but brilliant smile. I don't remember the last time I saw her smile. It's nice for a change. I'm glad I can bring that to her, even if the happiness won't last forever. Even if she goes straight back to her district and throws herself immediately back into her work, I hope she can hold on to this moment, this evening, for a while. That it will bring her at least a little happiness and light.

Haymitch waits on the front stoop as our trio makes our way through the Victors' Village. I know he wanted to invite Effie, but it would have been too hard to explain why we'd perform another Toasting. To be fair to Haymitch, though, it was probably just as hard for him to make an excuse as to why he needed to come over to our house for a bit without her. It's hard to believe, but they've become almost inseparable these past few months. She's spent a lot of time organizing the opening of the factory, and he's spent a lot of time with her after hours.

As hard as it is to believe, I can't imagine having the Toasting without Haymitch. I can't tell if that's more sappy sentimental or just plain sad. But there it is. Whether I like it or not, that sobered up drunk has wormed his snarky little way into my blackened, cynical heart one way or another. He's the closest thing I have to a father, even if I feel like killing him half the time and punching him the other half.

Greasy Sae is in the kitchen cooking up a storm when we unlock the front door and usher my mother in. I raise an eyebrow as I silently question why Haymitch was waiting on the front porch if someone was home, but I doubt I'll ever understand what classifies as logic in his mind. I'm not about to open my mouth and start a bickering match. Tonight will be perfection envisioned, I promise myself. If not for me, then certainly for Peeta. He's waited long enough. He deserves it to be all he's imagined and more.

As Haymitch and my mother move into the house, Peeta and I pause on the stoop in unison. Sliding his arm from around my waist, he drops it to his side before extending it slightly towards me. Splaying his fingers, he holds out his hand in question. Crossing the threshold together is the first step of the Toasting, the first step of the ritual to seal our fates.

I quirk the side of my mouth and pretend to think about his offer. Only for a moment, to try to release some of the butterflies punching the inside of my gut, trying to force their way out in all possible directions. With a slightly shaking hand, I grasp his and hold it firm. As I move to step forward, he catches me instead. Pulling me to him, he captures my lips with his in an all too familiar way. It should embarrass me, this public display of affection in front of my mother. It doesn't. I pull him closer with my free hand, and I swear I hear my mother sigh in delight as I extend the kiss a beat longer.

"Katniss Everdeen," he whispers against my lips as he regrettably pulls away. "I knew I'd eventually wear you down."

"Peeta Mellark," I counter, "shut up." I squeeze his hand softly as I chastise.

We cross over the threshold into the house, and he pushes the door shut without relinquishing his hold on my hand. Our hands remain joined throughout the Toasting ceremony. Greasy Sae meets us in the living room, holding a tray of fresh bread. She sets it down on the coffee table as Haymitch and my mother take seats around the table. Peeta leads me to the fireplace and I follow on his heels, our arms creating a physical link between us that feels unbreakable.

He lowers to his knees, bending down to perch atop his legs. I join him. He reaches for my other hand, and I offer it immediately. We sit for a moment without saying a word, just staring at each other. It's not an official wedding ceremony, but it feels more important than anything else I've ever done. It means more to join him in this tradition, the way he explained in front of all of Panem, than any official ceremony we could have.

His eyes flicker to the poker, and I reach for it while he opens the grate. Setting the poker down next to us, I stretch back, leaning to the side to grab a log from the pile past the mantle overhang. Handing it to him, I let him place it in the fireplace. He pulls a match from his pocket, and I realize he must have thought ahead to grab one from the bakery before he left. Leave it to Peeta to be three steps ahead, to leave nothing to chance.

"It seems only appropriate for the Girl on Fire to strike the match," he says as he hands the matchbook to me.

I want to tell him to shut up again. Haymitch snorts, then turns it into an unconvincing cough. I have to restrain from shooting him a dirty look. At least he keeps his remarks to himself, at least for the time being.

"I disagree," I tell him, turning the matchbook over in my hand. As I slide it back into his palm, I close his fingers around it. My voice cracks. "You rekindled the ashes of my heart when I thought I'd never be able to love again." I don't mention her name, because I don't have to. Everyone knows who I mean. They always know who I mean. "You never gave up on me, Peeta, even when I'd given up on myself. You came back to Twelve just in time to bring me back to life. Your never ending persistence is the reason we're here now. If anyone deserves to strike the match, it's you."

His cheeks redden, and I take immense satisfaction that, for once, I'm the one that's managed to embarrass him with my admission of love. I feel overly sappy and utterly romantic, but it's worth it to see the way his face lights up.

Releasing my other hand, he pulls a match from the book. As the match slides against the striker, the flame bursts to life. He collects my hand again and wraps it around his. "Together," he says so softly I'm certain I'm the only one in the room who hears it.

And so we light the fire together. As it crackles to life, he blows out the match and sets it on the stone of the fireplace. Breaking off a piece of the loaf, Greasy Sae hands us the bread.

Because it would be too much to ask for Haymitch to suffer through the entire ritual without uttering a remark, he cuts in as we take the rough slice together. "The Girl on Fire and the Boy with the Bread, toasting together." It brings a gentle, light laughter through the room. I hadn't realized it, but he's right. It's just further proof that I never stood a chance. Somewhere, it was written down in history, perhaps on the first day in school, that we would somehow, someday end up here together. Through all the hurt and the pain and the anger and the death and the destruction, we would find a way to heal and to learn to be happy again, together. Leave it to old Haymitch to point it out.

Peeta pushes the poker through the bread. Placing my hand below his, I grip its iron girth and we hold it over the flames. The fire licks the bread like it licked my skin. But the bread doesn't burn. The putrid smell of rooting flesh doesn't fill the room. Instead, a hint of cinnamon spreads as the bread toasts. Once it's golden brown, we draw it back instinctually. Peeta understands the bread, I understand the fire. Together, we toast the slice to perfection. Breaking off a piece, he blows it cool before sliding it between my teeth. I return the favor before we offer the remaining bread to our trio of guests.

Just like that, it's done. It feels perfect in every way, especially when he leans into me and whispers just how beautiful I look, and how he can't imagine a more perfect dress. Or a more perfect bride. Blushing madly, I kiss him to silence him, knowing I'm bound to hear more of it later once our guests depart. Pulling away, I reach for the bread and tear off another piece to give my mouth something to do other than kissing him. The hunger inside me licks my veins, demanding to be fed one way or another. For now, as I smile and share this perfect moment with my mother, my family, the bread will have to do. And it is more than enough.


	68. New Beginnings

"Thank you for staying," I tell my mother for what has to be the hundredth time. The sun peaks over the horizon, but it's still a few hours until the first train arrives to take her home. Despite my protests, she feels she's outworn her welcome and politely declines our offers of breakfast and refuses to stay for a few more days. "Newlyweds don't need a mother hen clucking about," she tells me softly, cupping my skin in her soft palm for a moment.

"Peeta and I have been married for years," I remind her with a grin.

"Of course," she plays along. "Even so, I'm afraid I must be going. I need to get back to work. The opening of the factory will only mean more work for development and more patients we can hopefully help." She pauses, as if she's forgotten what she was going to say next. "You look so much like him," she sighs, her voice far off and remote.

"Mother." My voice catches on the word, the word catching in my throat. I've worked so hard not to constantly think of him and Prim, and now we're threatening to throw my hard work away.

Leaning towards me, she kisses my cheek in reply. Her hands feel worn, aged as she holds my elbows. She looks older and tired. But she almost looks happy, if I had to read the expression on her face. A little sad, true, but happy all the same.

"Come visit," I ask, trying to get her to promise though I know she won't. She won't promise or come. That's the way things are, I have to remind myself. Peeta is my family now, and her job is her life. All encompassing, for both of us, or it is for me when we add Haymitch to the mix.

"We'll see." It's far from a promise, but more than I thought I would get. If I wasn't such a pessimist, it would give me hope.

"Let me know when you get home." It still feels weird, calling somewhere else home. Nowhere by Twelve could ever feel like home. Nowhere but the house I grew up in could ever deserve the word, not even now. Not even with the rubble and the ashes gone, the house torn down and built up by someone else's family.

"Yes, Katniss," she replies, as if she is the obligating child to the overprotective parent.

Without further ado, she leaves. I stand at the door awhile, watching her back as she makes her way through the silent and empty walkways of the Victors' Village. Even as she heads into town, I stand in the open doorway.

What comes next? I'm not sure. It feels as if everything should be different, but like nothing has changed. My mother still went home. Effie went back to the Capitol, Haymitch locked himself back up in his house alone, save our weekly dinner. Peeta works in the bakery, I hunt in the woods. Nothing has changed. Nothing at all.

"Come inside," Peeta says from behind me. I didn't hear him approach. His newer leg is much quieter than the old prosthetic. He's even stealthier now than he was when he has two real ones.

"Why?" I ask, not really paying attention.

"Because." Resting his chin on my shoulder, he sets his hands on my waist and pulls me back against him.

"Because why?" I ask again, still staring out along the way though she's disappeared into the early morning shadows.

He kisses my neck. Softly, at first, then with a growing sense of urgency, or lust, or both.

I lean into him, inclining my head to the side as I reach behind me to run my fingers through his hair. I'm a lot more flexible than I used to be. It's a characteristic Peeta greatly appreciates. "You still haven't answered," I prod him, but my breath is becoming slightly irregular and I have to concentrate on the words.

"Because everyone finally left," he answers, pulling away just long enough to speak the few words.

"Everyone left," I repeat, staring into the empty early morning outside the house.

His nose brushes against my neck. His lips press against the hollow of my neck. His chin settles on my shoulder once more. "What's going on in that head of yours?" he asks. I feel his gaze on the side of my face as he studies me, waiting for a reply.

"I don't know," I mumble. My arms reach blindly for his hands, snagging them and pulling them around my waist. He obliges, wrapping them securely around me as I mold into his chest. We've been reborn, our bodies scientifically remade, and yet we still fit together as if by design.

"Yes you do," he presses. His breath is warm in the cold morning air as it tickles my skin.

"Hmph." No longer denying, but still not agreeing.

"Twelve is still her home," he says, like he can read my mind. I'm not entirely sure he can't. "It's still home for us all. She may not stay here, but she'll always eventually come back."

"We'll see." Agree to disagree.

His hands release mine. Skimming across my stomach, they flint lower. Any thoughts rambling in my mind fly out as my skin tingles. All sensations rush to the nerves in my lower extremities.

"Maybe we should go inside," I say, not trusting my legs to carry me backward.

"Yes please," he murmurs against my ear, pulling me back with him.

Before the door closes behind me, I turn into him. Pulling him to me, my hands turn to fists, clutching skin, hair, cotton, whatever it can. His nimble fingers slide under my thighs, lifting me up, and we're off.

Those who don't know Peeta might be foolish enough to think him weak, malleable to my will. Sometimes, I think that is his greatest defense. He puts on an innocent, affable persona for everyone so they underestimate him. I realized it during our first Games, and even still he wears that mask.

But when we're together, like this, I know with unwavering certainty. I am the weak one. Every inch of my skin that he touches melts. His movements, while chaotic and unpredictable in the heat of the moment, are strong and true. His fingers will leave bruises on my skin as his hands drag across my body, forever trying to pull me closer.

"I really like this tie," I tell him with a small gasp as I try to wrestle it from his neck. My back hits the wall, knocking the air from my lungs. I lose concentration for a moment, then have to start on the knot all over again.

He drops me onto the end table by the door. I wince from the surprise of the impact but manage to yank the tie off. It was a present, I think. From Haymitch, or Effie. He hates wearing ties at all, yet he dressed up this morning to see my mother off, though she begged us not to accompany her to the station.

"Not the time for talking Katniss," he complains as he reaches the hem of my shirt and begins to pull it up. Something clangs against the tile, a fallen picture frame or decorative piece from the table. I don't pay enough attention to the decor to guess what it might be, but from the sound of it, it didn't break.

I smirk, because now it turns into a challenge. I like to talk, to tease, to release some of the tension that builds inside me that I don't think I'll ever get used to. Peeta is more the silent, brooding type. Not something I ever thought I would say.

"Maybe we ought to eat breakfast," I comment into the fabric of my shirt as he lifts it up over my head and chucks it to the ground. My fingers twirl light circles around his shoulders as I slowly push him back. "Last night you promised to make me cheese buns when we got up."

He leans in to kiss me. I apply more pressure to his shoulders, keeping him at bay. My smirk grows.

"Seriously?" This game I like to occasionally play is not entirely fair, but I think that's why I enjoy it so much. It's my own little revenge against the teasing and the mocking of my naivety over the past several years. It's the small power I wield, and it's fun to make him squirm a little after all the times he's made me uncomfortable.

I shrug my shoulders, skimming my arms down his sides to collect the hem of his shirt. As I pull it up, I playfully tap the back of his legs with the heels of my feet. He uses the opportunity to take a step closer as I pull off his shirt and throw it in the general direction of my own.

"I _am_ rather hungry," I say as I scooch to the edge of the table. His leans towards me and places his hands on the edges of the sides, presumably to hold to table from tipping under me. His face hovers in front of mine. I decide, for my own sake and his, to end my little game early this morning.

Leaning forward, I give in to him. I let myself melt against him as I grab for the belt loops of his pants and pull him closer. His hands remain planted on the table, but his mouth more than makes up for their stationary positions. Though he leans in and I pull him closer, it doesn't feel close enough. It's never enough. I fumble as I reach behind me, cursing myself that I even bothered to put on a bra this morning. If I had been privy to his intentions for the agenda as soon as my mother left, I certainly would not have wasted the effort.

My fingers, my entire body, shake too much to get a good hold on the clasp behind my back as his tongue swirls with mine and my lungs scream for air. We're both wheezing for air through our noses, neither one willing to break the kiss, refusing to release the intensity. He's probably afraid I'll start talking again. I'm afraid I'll explode.

He steps further into me, pushing me back on the table as our bodies mold together. Then he releases the edge with one hand and bats away my fumbling hands to easily snap the clasp open with one flick of his fingers. He has gotten amazingly good at that.

I shrug the garment off, never breaking the kiss though I have to put a small gap between us for a fraction of a second. As soon as I pull him back to me, I shiver from the combination of the cold of the air mixed with the warmth of his bare skin against mine. Again, I think I will never get used to these feelings that only he elicits from my traitorous body.

I pull back for a second, gasping for air. "Upstairs," I whisper, barely able to find my breath. My chest pounds and my lips ache.

"Here's fine," he says instead. The suggestion is so unlike either of us and so unexpected that I can think of no objection. I can feel the restraint he's trying so hard to control.

My head nods like a rabbit hops, quickly up and down in agreement. "Yeah, fine." I don't want to waste any more time talking. So we don't.


	69. Kids (Summer)

She sits on the floor, the jumble of yarn spread out in a mess around her. Greasy Sae apologizes again and again, but we wave it off as nothing. It is nothing. If anything, it's fun to watch her play. The yarn is her favorite household item to play with. The simple balls of fabric entertain her for hours while Greasy Sae works in the kitchen. Indeed, she oftentimes has to drag her granddaughter away, kicking and screaming and crying, at the end of the day.

Peeta loves to sit on the living room floor and play with her while I try in vain to learn something resembling a skill of cooking from Greasy Sae. You would think by now we'd all have given up hope that I'll be able to master anything but a simple meal, but for some strange reason both she and Peeta still cling to some desperate hope that one day it'll click and I will learn.

I join the pair of them every once in a while, after I set fire to a pan or burn whatever it is I attempt to cook. Greasy Sae inevitably ushers me out of the kitchen, mumbling under her breath the entire time. I take up a vacant spot on the floor and roll the balls of yarn with them, or join in on whatever other game they've concocted to play. Peeta is a master as scheming up new games.

The topic comes up frequently these days. It's never a direct conversation, more a thinly veiled comment here and an offhanded hint there. He never explicitly says he wants to start trying, but I'm not an idiot nor am I blind. He lights up when they play; it's even worse at the school. When he's surrounded by a gaggle of kids in the art room, covered in paints and glitter and feathers, I swear I'll never be able to drag him back home. I agonize over it because I know one day he won't be able to resist the question anymore, and I won't be able to give him what he wants.

For his sake, I try to change my mind, to open up to the kids in my music class. I try to picture myself pregnant, a mom. I've even tried to brooch the topic with my own mother a few times, though I never manage to go through with it in the end. But no matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, it all comes full circle for me. Each little blond girl is Prim, reaped for the Hunger Games though her name is only in the drawing once. Each little blond boy is Peeta, with no one who loves him enough to give the ultimate sacrifice to volunteer for him, to save him. And all the brunette boys and girls are Gale and myself, with their names in their so many times they've lost count.

The world is changing, we boast, and for the better. The Hunger Games are over. We left tyranny and dictatorship in our past. Our government, our country, our people have changed. We are smarter, we are stronger, we have learned from our mistakes.

So we say. But I'm not dumb, and I'm only a little naive. I notice the way we no longer pay tribute to the Tributes when we celebrate the anniversary of the end of the war. As a collective society, we've swept under the rug the ugliness of our past, what we did to generations of children. I don't believe for a second we've learned our lesson, at least not entirely.

As if my thoughts stirred the idea, Peeta brings up the topic after dinner, once Greasy Sae and her granddaughter leave. We sit in the open front doorway, watching the afternoon rain pour down in sheets, enjoying the cool breeze that flints across our faces. Reaching across the frame, he takes my hand. "We'd have adorable kids," he muses. "A dark haired little boy who likes to poke at everything with a stick. A blond little girl with the voice of an angel and the attitude of a bear."

"Peeta." I try to wave the conversation off without credence. The weather's been warm all day, and I'm exhausted from my trek in the woods helping Gale's old mining buddies lug timber into town. The little wine we had with dinner was not enough to loosen me up enough to talk about this particular subject.

"It doesn't have to be now," he comments.

"It doesn't have to be ever," I mumble under my breath as I take a sip of water from my glass. The ice clangs against the barrier of glass, just loud enough to be audible over the sound of the summer storm. The condensation on the glass, which grows as the ice loses a battle against the heat, makes my hand slick and my mind irritable.

"You don't mean that."

"What if I do?" I challenge. "Spending an afternoon playing with a kid is a lot different than having one of our own. It's the biggest responsibility in the world." He misses his family. It shows less and less, probably because he's gotten better at hiding it, but I see it because I know where to look. He misses his siblings and his parents. He misses that companionship, those relationships. He wants to fill that void, and I understand. I would give anything to rid myself of the ache in my heart. I can never replace Prim, would never want to, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to love like that again. To have someone to fiercely protect, to love unconditionally, to shelter from the uglier realities of the world.

But not in this world. That's more potential for hurt than I can handle. Another loss like Prim would undo me completely, and I don't think even Peeta would be able to save me. I don't think Peeta would be able to save himself from that. He hardly ever backslides anymore, but a child opens up all sorts of new potentials. And I can't go back. I refuse. We've only just begun to enjoy this life we've rebuilt together, and I won't let anyone take him away from me, to undo all the work he's fought so hard to pull together.

"We don't have to decide today," he concedes. He always does, though this is the first time we verbally acknowledge we're having this particular conversation. As he reaches across the open doorway, his hand finds my warm leg. His fingers settle on my knee in an uneasy silence as we tuck the issue back under the rug, away with the rest of the painful thoughts and ideas neither of us wants to remember or talk about.


	70. Decisions (Spring)

**SIX YEARS LATER**

"Stop it!" I slam my hands down on the counter, sending a plume of flour up in front of me. I wave it away irritably, sneezing as particles sneak up my nose.

"I didn't say anything." His voice is calm and level, which only upsets me more. He loves to play the logical one, making me the hotheaded mess.

"You don't have to! Dammit Peeta, I said I didn't want to talk about it."

"And we aren't."

Picking up the blob of bread, I knead it savagely. My fists pound down on it, but it does little to lessen my aggression. "You keep humming that blasted song," I accuse.

He laughs, his eyes meeting mine across the table. His look is incredulous. "So what?"

Fist into dough, fingers ripping it apart. "You know I hate it when you do that. You know I know what you mean by it, and you know I don't. Want. To. Talk. About. It." Each word is punctuated as I beat the dough into submission. I can almost picture his face in it, the dough only a shade off from his blond hair.

He shakes his head at me, the only response I receive. It is the best way to get a rise out of me and he knows it. Scooping up the dough, I hurl it at him without a second thought. It strikes him square in the chest. His head snaps back up, his eyes zeroing in on me.

"You can't ask that of me."

My unsolicited attack has struck a nerve. Setting the pastry bag down on the countertop, he grabs the dough where it fell, narrowly missing his tray of miniature cupcakes, and throws it back. It lands exactly where I was kneading it, sending the flour into a tizzy again. "I didn't."

His attention returns to the cupcakes as he bends over them to work. I stew as I stare at the top of his head. "Got a letter from Gale and Cressida," he comments just as I sink down onto my stool.

I know better than to ask, yet I do anyway. "And?"

"They're having a baby. A girl." I can hear the smirk in his words. "Gale is over the moon and Cressida is optimistic that she'll be able to handle the both of them."

A repressed scream tears through the walls of my throat as I reach angrily behind me. The dough caked on my fingers makes it difficult to untie the knot in my apron. My nails dig roughly as I try to yank it off.

Peeta no longer pretends to ignore what's going on. The pastry bag hits the table with a solid _plop_ this time as he sinks to his stool. His long arms stretched out on either side, he clings to the edge of counter as I pull the apron up over my head and throw it onto the floor next to me. "You promised me you would think about it."

"I have!" I shout, loud enough that I'm sure everyone in the bakery eating can hear if they have one decent ear.

"Obviously not!"

"I thought about it," I snap, "but the answer is still no!"

"Katniss."

"What? What! Do you really want to bring a life into a world that is still so fragile? Our government tried to kill us, Peeta. Over and over again. The people sworn to protect us put us in an arena, twice, and made us kill innocence kids. They tried to make us kill each other!

"You would be able to send your kid off to the arena? To sit there in town square and watch them get reaped and know there isn't a single thing you can do to save them?"

"The Games are over, Katniss."

"The Games are never over!" I slam my fist into the table. I would overturn it if I thought I could, but it's hefty and solid and I think Peeta even bolted it into the ground. "They will never be over, not entirely. History has a way of repeating itself." I'm getting myself worked up, but it's too late to reign myself back in. "That's what Plutarch said, and he was right. We're living in that little space of time where the pain is fresh and we think we've learned from our mistakes. But there's no way to know, ten, fifteen years down the road. You can't promise me that, and I can't take that chance."

I'm acutely aware I've become somewhat hysterical. Peeta stares stupidly at me, like he has no idea what to say. I take little happiness from stumping him. When we fight, it's usually empty and benign. It ends almost as fast as it starts, and we pretend like it never happened. But I've said it this time, I actually said something that means something to me, and there's no way to scrounge up those words and shove them back into my mouth to swallow them down.

"Okay." He says it slowly, carefully, as if testing the word for the first time. "Okay. Just... calm down."

"Oh, shut up," I snap. Already my frantic heartbeat dips to a more manageable pace. It no longer feels like it's going to leap from my chest and explode into pieces. Running my hand back and forth over my forehead, I try to collect myself a little more. "You have to stop asking, Peeta." There is no fight, no anger anymore. It's burned off like the alcohol in one of his desserts. All that's left is me, in pieces, trying to pull myself back together. "You have to stop wanting," I clarify. "Because even when you don't say anything, you say everything."

"I don't think I can do that. That's like telling the sun not to shine or the deer not to run. I can't stop wanting, Katniss."

"And I can't start. I can't."

"Maybe not now, but-"

"No!" My voice raises again. The fire that just died down burst to life from the embers. "Not ever, Peeta. I would do anything for you, anything but this. Don't ask this of me. Don't put this guilt on me."

"I don't know what you want me to say." He's still the calm one, but even he's upset now. His face is scrunching and the crow's feet in the corners of his eyes appear.

"Nothing." I don't know what I want. Right now, I only know what I can't handle. "I don't want you to say anything."

"Fine."

"Fine." It is not fine. Nothing feels fine at all.

"I really have to finish these cupcakes before Vick comes looking to refill the display."

"Okay."

A pause. Just a brief moment of silence. "Are you going to bite off my head if I accidentally starting humming again?"

"Probably." A beat as I think honestly about it. "Yes," I revise.

"Then will you go home so I can work?"

I will my face to be a blank facade. I don't want him to see how much that question hurts. I know he's mad. I'm just as mad, if not more so. But I didn't think he'd tell me to leave. It feels wrong, to leave us where we're at now. But I don't have a good reason to stay. "Fine." The word is a clip off my tongue.

"Fine. I'll be home in a bit."

"Okay." But nothing feels okay either.


	71. Advice (Winter)

"Katniss, now wait." I hear his feet pounding on the stairs behind me, a tick out of sync from my own. "Hang on!" he snaps as I reach the landing, pivot, and start down the second half of the stairwell.

"Let it go!" I yell, not bothering to look back. Tears burn in my eyes. I wipe furiously at them as I reach the first floor and turn towards the front door. I hate that I let myself get so worked up and emotional. I don't want him to see me cry.

"Come on." I have the unfair advantage of two natural legs, but I have to stop at the coatrack by the front door. Jamming my feet into my boots, I scramble to get a decent hold of my coat to pull it off the hook.

Though slowed by his artificial leg, he is determined. My hands tremble as I tug at the coat, and the rack threatens to tumble over atop me. As I calm down and slow to let it settle, he hops off the stairs and hurries towards me.

"Don't!" I beg. The rack, sympathetic to my cause, finally releases the coat. It twirls around me, holding him off for a brief minute as it fans out around me. But once it's on my shoulders, he steps closer.

He pulls me closer. I turn away.

"Where are you going?" he asks, exasperated, as if I am the one who started this quarrel.

"Out."

"Out?" His volume raises to match my own.

"I don't want to talk!" I scream, spinning my head to face him. He looks haggard. An instant pang of guilt hits me. I push it down. It's my turn to be mad at him. Before he can ask why, because he always asks why, I answer, "Because I'm going to say something I don't want to say, and then you are going to feel hurt, and then it will be another week of both of us being stubborn until we both cave and I'm tired of that."

His hands clutch the sleeves of my coat. When I try to pull away, to back up towards the front door only a few paces out of reach, his fingers tightened. He risks releasing me with one hand, reaching up to cup my face. I pull away, twisting my neck to stay out of his reach. "Stay." So calm this time, as if his soothing words alone can calm me down. Sometimes they can. His rationality pushes through the blind anger and make me realize what an ass I am. "Don't go."

But not today. "Let go," I correct him. I lift my own arms up, fanning them out to break his hold. I want to apologize, to say something to break the tension before I leave. But I can't. Not this time. I mumble, "I'll be back later," and turn away.

I expect for him to protest as I open the door and quickly slip out. I think he might grab the edge of the door, or perhaps my wrist, and prevent me from leaving. But I meet no resistance as I step out onto the porch and pull the door shut behind me. I don' know whether to be grateful or sad, if I pushed him too far this time to be forgiven when I get home. Even Peeta has a limit.

It is a short walk over to Haymitch's house, but it's far enough for me to realize I forgot my gloves. My fingers tingle on the cold metal handle as I twist it, thankful to find the front door unlocked. With a holler to announce my arrival, I step into the cold, dark house and kick off my shoes. Peeta won't follow me. He'll sit at home and wait. At least for a little while.

I take a deep breath as I shrug the coat off. It crumples to a pile onto the floor where I leave it, heading into the living room.

Effie peers up over the top of a flashy magazine from her perch on the couch. "Katniss," she says warmly. "I thought that was your bellow."

On another day under better circumstances, I would apologize. Today, I don't feel like apologizing to anyone.

Haymitch's voice floods in from the other room. "Tell her to leave."

"Tell her yourself," I shout back, moving over to the wooden liquor cabinet Haymitch hastily made ages ago. I love how out of place it looks in the otherwise Capitol decorated room. "Hi Effie," I add as an afterthought as I pass the couch on the way to my target.

When I open the slightly crooked door that always hangs slightly ajar, I frown. "Where is it?" I ask as I lean back to peer past the edge of the door towards the hallway.

"Get out," Haymitch complains. Deserting whatever he's doing, he slowly ambles into the living room. "I hid it," he tells me. "No need for you to turn into me. This town can barely handle the one of me it's already got."

"I'm not going bathe in it, I just wanted a glass of that Moscato one you had last time."

"My house is not a halfway home," he grumbles. The cabinet door comes swings towards my face as he pushes it. I dodge back just as it brushes past my cheek.

"Hey!" I snap, slapping his hand away from the cabinet door.

"Hey yourself," he counters. He matches my slap with one of his own. "Case you forgot, Sweetheart, this is my house. You live next door."

"If you don't want company," I tell him, "then you should lock your doors."

"And if you don't want to end up living by yourself, you should learn to talk to your husband," he fires back, hitting below the belt.

"Peeta and I are none of your business," I hiss. I hear Effie's tat of disapproval at my tone. I ignore it.

"Then don't come stomping over here every time you lose a fight."

"I didn't lose the fight, I-"

He interrupts my protest. "Sweetheart, I don't care. It's none of my business, remember? I was about to sit down to a nice dinner anyway, so it's not really a good time for our old song and dance. You know what I'm going to say, so let's just skip it this time, shall we? And, for the love of the Capitol, shut your windows when you fight, would you? If you insist on barging in, I don't need to witness it the first time around."

"You know he never shuts the windows at night." Some things never change, no matter how much time passes. I don't resent Peeta for the security that the open windows give him. I wish he wouldn't resent me my inability to change either.

"Listen up, Kid." I haven't been a kid for a while now, but that never stops him from calling me one. "I have five minutes until our quail is done. So I am only going to say this once tonight, and then you're going home. You owe that boy whatever he wants."

My mouth opens to protest. "Uh!" Haymitch says, holding up his index finger to silence me. "Anything," he insists, his voice raising its volume. "If he wants a kid, give him five." He's deviated from the usual lecture I receive when I come over here to lick my wounds or cool off after storming out. "Don't make him regret marrying your sorry ass."

"Language," Effie hisses, still pretending to stare intently at the magazine though she can't avoid gossip to save her life.

"It's a marvel you don't have any kids of your own," I snap. I can't look at Effie now, knowing I've insulted her, or at least their relationship, with my biting remark.

"I never got a Peeta," he counters. As my eyebrows start to rise, he grunts. "You know what I mean. All I ever found at your age was the bottom of a bottle. Don't be like me. I know you think having a kid will be the end of the world. Hell, maybe it will. But you know what? You won't know for sure until you try. And after everything you two went through together, after how long he waited for you, and after how much torture you've put him through, you owe him. You owe him a lot. Being scared isn't a good excuse. It just isn't."

"Haymitch," Effie warns. Though she loves the gossip, she isn't one to mettle. She doesn't like it when I try to drag Haymitch into the argument, and she really doesn't like it when Haymitch gets involves.

"Go home," he tells me. His face shows more wrinkles these days. I wonder how many of them I've caused on my own. "You know you're eventually going to say yes to him. You've never been able to deny him anything. You two are the sorriest lovebirds I've ever met. It makes me sick, but it's about high time you remember it. You are exhausting me and, in case you hadn't noticed, I have my own life to deal with. And I'm not getting any younger."

As if on cue, the timer buzzes in the kitchen. "Guess what, Sweetheart? Your five minutes are up. I trust you can see yourself to the door."

I chew on the inside on my cheek, but I don't argue. I give Effie a soft good-bye as I trudge unwilling to the door, a cat with my tail tucked between my legs.


	72. Reunion (Winter)

**THREE YEARS LATER**

"Hi." His voice is warm, instantly familiar in a way I hadn't thought possible.

"Hi." My own response is breathy, light. His stubble is a few days old, giving him an almost rugged look. It makes him look older, different than I remember but still exactly the same, even after all these years.

We stand awkwardly in the doorway, not speaking. His fingers drum out a beat on the open door's frame as his eyes study me. Neither one of us knows what to say. We don't know who we are anymore, not sure where we fit together. I spent the entire ride on the way here pondering, and I came up with nothing.

"It's cold," he comments, as if mentioning a squirrel caught in one of his traps.

"Same kind of cold we have back home."

"No need to freeze. Come on in." He steps back, holding the door wide invitingly.

I face the same uncertainty as always when I see him, but this time is different. The fight that has burned inside me for over a decade has no rage left to feed it. I look at his tired eyes, so early in the morning, and he's just an old friend I've been missing.

I pause inside the doorway. My arms twitch by my side, unsure. Then they reach up, and I'm not sure if I control them or not as they hesitantly wrap around his neck.

He steps into me, his body melting against mine as he releases the door to slide his arms around my waist. We merge together, he warmed by the heated air, I chilled by the early morning winter frost. "Hi," I say again as I breathe him in. He even smells the same. The wool of his sweater scratches my cheek as I press my head into his chest. I wonder if his mother made it for him, shipped all the way from Twelve as a birthday present one year.

The muscles of his forearms dance on my back as his hold tightens. I feel them pulse against the tight leather of my jacket. My outfit was not the best choice for the time of year, but it felt appropriate and it lends me strength I so desperately needed to make the journey out here.

"Where's Peeta?" he asks slowly. He speaks the words against the top of my head. My hair moves with his breath, tickling my scalp.

"We decided it would be better if he didn't come." I don't elaborate, and he thankfully doesn't probe further.

"It's good to see you. I was beginning to worry you decided not to come." He doesn't mention the other time, a few years back. He doesn't have to, for I know what he's referring to.

"Snow held us overnight at the last station. It was a long ride."

"Well I'm glad you finally made it."

It only took me eleven years to get back. But he doesn't say that either.

"I thought I heard voices," a voice calls in the distance.

I jerk away, my limbs untangling from Gale in an instant. Old habits die hard, I guess.

A blond head pokes around a corner. The tattoos on her scalp hide under a full head of hair pulled back in a messy bun. Flyaway strands dart out in every direction, but the smile on her face is warm. "Katniss," she says with a soft nod, stepping into the room. "We weren't sure you were going to make it."

"For a while there, neither was I." I doubt she catches the double meaning in my words.

Hugging her is the same as Gale. It is warm, familiar, a song once forgotten that you return to instantly by memory alone. When she whispers, "Glad you finally made it," she gives me a tight squeeze. The way she says it, I wonder if perhaps she did catch my meaning.

"Me too," I say. To my own surprise, it isn't a lie.

Her gaze darts back and forth between the two of us for a moment. "Well I'm sure you have a lot to catch up on. I'll leave you to it. But Holly's awake if you want to meet her. We'll be in the play room, just down the hallway."

I give her a mute nod. With a soft wave that seems uncharacteristic, she disappears as quickly as she arrived.

"Come on," Gale says, catching my arm and guiding me forward, "kitchen's this way. I know you don't have long to stay. But I'm glad you came." His house is just as I remember it from my one and only other visit. There are more pictures in frames littering the tables and walls, and toys are strewn about the floor, but the furniture remains unchanged and it feels familiar.

"I'll make us some tea and then we can talk," he says as he guides me through the living room to the kitchen.

Talk we do. Endlessly, for hours. The entire time I'm here, we talk. If not one of us, then the other. Sometimes we talk at the same time, interjecting into each other's sentences. I even laugh, something I thought I would never be able to do with him again. We broach the topic of Prim, though it feels stiff compared to everything else. He talks about his daughter, Holly, and how she's changed him. He mentions his son on the way, whom they've already named Hunter. He talks about being a father, and how he realizes now what he could never understand when we were younger. He talks a lot about regret, how if he could go back, he would do things differently.

For my part, I talk about Peeta. I hadn't realized how wholly my life revolves around him until I start to talk about my life. Gale knows some of it already, learned from the feeds or gossip or even some from my mother. A lot, though, he doesn't know. A lot we keep private, and it's hard to talk about now. I tell him about the fights, the disagreements. I confess my fear, and how this is the one war I don't know how to end. He doesn't interrupt when I get to this point. He sits on the chair next to me, our knees brushing as we lean slightly into each other, our tea long finished and forgotten. I lay all my doubts out in front of him, the way I can't bring myself to do for Peeta. After listening to Gale talk, I know he will understand. He has been broken in the same ways I have, different ways than the torture that Peeta endured.

When I'm finally done, when it all tumbles out of me, an avalanche off the side of a mountain, I look up, waiting for his response. This is way I came here, and he knows it. I have to know what made him believe the world is a better place, safe for his children. I want to be able to change my mind.

Gale doesn't say anything. Instead, he stands up. He catches my elbow and pulls me to my feet. Without a word, he pulls me through the kitchen back to the living room. He directs me down the hallway, to an ajar door on the right at the end. Inside, Cressida sits on the floor, playing with a young blond girl. When she looks up at us, my heart lurches. Standing directly behind me, Gale reaches up to lightly grab my shoulders. He squeezes them softly, as if he understands. He must. "I see her every day," Gale whispers behind me. "I look at my daughter and I see her. I think of the decisions I made, of the things that became that couldn't be undone. It breaks my heart sometimes, when she looks at me and all I can see is Prim."

I can't hold back the tears, couldn't even if I tried. Holly takes no notice and barrels full steam ahead, pushing up onto her feet and running straight at us. She snakes around me first to hug her daddy. Then she rips my arm off next, trying to get me to pick her up and hug her properly. She tugs on my braids and begs me to play. So play I do.

At some point, Gale slides closer. Cressida casually adverts her eyes, pulling Holly a little further away from us. His hand brushes against mine as he reaches for the train I'm playing with. The symbolism of trains to us is not lost on me, especially not with the coal filled car this one pulls. "You'll see, Katniss," he tells me softly. "When you have your own, you'll see. No matter how much you think it's impossible, it will happen. You were born to be a mother, and you deserve the kind of love you give your children. There will never be a guarantee that the world will be a safe place, but you'll know that you'll keep your children safe from the world we grew up in. We have that power now. I can guarantee you that. That's the world I fight for every day. That's the world we sacrificed for, the world we created. This is what we get in return." He pushes the train toward Holly. Cressida smiles softly, her hand idly stroking her swollen belly as she suggests that Holly should show me her flute and play me a song.


	73. Ready

I'm lighting the last candle when the front door closes. If not for the open windows, he would have made it into the house undetected. Silently urging the wick to catch, I smile as the small flame comes to life. Blowing out the match, I drop it into the trash.

"Katniss?" he calls out. I imagine him standing in the foyer, shaking the snow from his hair and coat. The storm is relentless, the biggest flurry we've had in years. It's the only reason he's home so early. Everyone is too weary of the weather to trudge into town. Even the promise of warm sticky buns can't entice them through this storm.

"Up here!" I call back, head inclined towards the open door. I glance down and swear under my breath. Even with the fire kindled in the hearth, the cold air pushes through the cracked windows. The floor chills the soles of my feet. I hobble across the room and lean against the back of a chair to yank my socks off and cast them to the side. The bathrobe requires more fortitude to vacate but discard it I do, dropping it into the seat of the chair. Hustling to the door, I slide into the space between it and the wall to study my reflection in the full length mirror on the back of the door. I've run out of time to do anything else, but I hastily pull the elastics from my hair and yank my fingers through the braids to unweave them.

"Are you hungry? I brought what was left from the bakery." His voice sounds closer. He's coming up the stairs. I'm almost out of time. My discarded clothes litter the floor, but I don't have time to pick them up. Instead, I kick them out of the way as I move back to the center of the room to grab the silk tie I left on the nightstand. I hear his footsteps in the hallway as I move into position by the door.

"Where are you?" he asks as he walks into the room. I'm sandwiched behind the door again, out of sight in the darkness outside of the candles' glow. He doesn't turn around as he ambles in, affording me the opportunity to sneak up behind him and slide the tie over his eyes.

"Right here," I whisper, leaning toward his ear. Probably not my best idea, in retrospect. He startles at the surprise, and I catch his elbow in my stomach. Hard. I try to suppress my involuntarily grunt as I hurry to tie the ends of the tie into a knot behind his head.

"Sorry," he apologizes quickly. His fingers grope behind himself for me. "But what the hell are you doing?"

"It's a surprise." I am useless at sultry talk, so I do my best to keep my voice soft, quiet, and as timid as I can muster.

"What did you break this time?" he asks. He hands dart out in front of him, reaching blindly to investigate for damage.

"Nothing. Will you just-" I force myself to take a deep breath and collect my thoughts. I have a plan for tonight, I remind myself. That means I have to check my attitude at the door. "Come here," I say instead, catching his hand and turning him to face me. His hands still reach blindly to assess his surroundings.

"Please take this off." His voice isn't panicked, but I can tell he doesn't like the idea of being blindfolded. With his free hand, he reaches up to try to pull it off his eyes.

"Wait, wait, wait." I catch his hand and pull it back down to place it on my waist instead.

"If you broke the vase, just tell me. You know it's useless when you glue stuff back together and think I magically won't notice." His eyebrows are hidden beneath the silk, but I smile as I picture them raising. His fingers start to probe the material covering my waist. His palm flattens, fingers splayed across my skin. His Adam's apple bobs as his fingers slip down to my upper thigh. When he speaks next, his tone has dropped an octave. "What are you wearing?"

My smile spreads as I try to hold my composure. "That," I whisper as I lean into him, "is part of the surprise."

"Mmmm." His fingers embark on an expedition across my skin. They travel around my waist, sliding up my back, then back down. "Okay, I'll play," he says. His breath hitches and his jaw tightens when he swallows. "What's the other part?"

I capture his hand and tug it up from where it roams my butt with purpose. I return it to my back and slide it up six inches further than it explored before. His fingers find the clasp with learned dexterity. They maneuver over the fabric surrounding it, a dance on the stage of my back. Then they ease across my shoulder blade and around the side. "Oh stars," he whispers. "Where did you get this?"

I clear my throat, glad he cannot see the blush on my face. "I would rather not say," I confess. Going to Hazelle and asking her to sew it for me was the greatest embarrassment of my life. Even more unbearable had been when she'd told me she'd be happy to do it, but she was going to need more details about what I had in mind for the design.

"Well, I would much rather see," he says. His hand moves again to reach for the tie. I catch it, returning it down to my waist with a motion toward the front of the outfit to keep him occupied.

"Just a second."

A growl of frustration emits from deep within his throat. "Why?" It's almost a whine.

"Because." My throat catches as his hand grazes before sliding back to my waist. His fingers tremor against my bare skin, and I doubt the cold is solely to blame. "I'm building suspense," I confess with a light, nervous laugh. I'll never be as good at this as him, but for tonight I'll try.

"Katniss." His voice is strained as he speaks each word with purpose. "Trust me. Suspense has been sufficiently built." His hands pull me flush against him. My chin bumps into his jaw as he draws me in. I catch the nape of his neck to direct his head and guide his lips to mine. The meaning behind his words evident within seconds, and I start to lose control of my plan as I melt into him.

As one hand works on the clasp, the other grasps for the tie yet again. This time I let him yank it off.

"Oh sweet heavens," he says. His mouth peels away from mine in shock at the sight of my lingerie. His eyes devour me, growing wide with disbelief. The lace material leaves little to the imagination and though he has seen everything a hundred times over, he still takes his time to drink it in.

He pulls me back against him, his fingers working twice as hard to undo the clasp. "Whatever you broke, I don't even care. It is forgiven."

"It's something I did, more than something I damaged," I confess. My fingernails trace his scalp as I pull my fingers through his hair. I tilt my head to the side to kiss his neck, a flutter of chapped lips against cool skin.

"I forgive you." With a victorious snap, the clasp releases.

"I haven't told you what it is yet."

Without an ounce of subtly, his eyes study the way the fabric releases its tension from my body. It slinks off my shoulders as gravity tugs it toward the ground. "Don't care."

"Stop it. I'm trying to be serious for one minute before you get distracted."

"Oh, Love, that ship has long since sailed."

My fingers wrap around a handful of hair and pull his head away to catch his eye. His fingers halt on my shoulders as they pull the spaghetti thin straps off. "Peeta."

"What?" A definite whine this time. He's practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"I stopped taking my herbs last week." I wait for the words to sink in, for him to realize what I've told him.

"Good for you," he says distractedly. I wonder if he's even listening. His pinkie fingers hook under the straps and continue to pull them forward.

"Peeta, work with me here for a minute."

"Katniss, I'm sure as hell trying, but you make this way more difficult than it needs to be. Mmm," he murmurs as he leans in to place a kiss against my collarbone, "candles are a nice touch."

He does his best to distract me, and it almost works. "Herbs." I stretch the word to two syllables. His hands insist, and I worry the flimsy material will tear on the next attempt. I help to ease the straps off to keep him from ripping it in his haste. "I stopped taking them."

"Mmhmm." He plants his hands firmly on either side of my waist and guides me backward towards the bed. "That's nice," he mumbles against my lips.

I should have known this plan wouldn't work. The news needed to be told before I revealed the outfit. He hasn't heard a single word I've said since the blindfold dropped. "Peeta." My feet trip over themselves as I halt our progress. I catch either side of his face to lift his head to look directly into my eyes. "I'm ready now." It's the hardest thing I've ever said. My voice trembles as I rush over the words, as if I still can't believe I've made this decision.

"Again, I'm trying here, but you aren't exactly making it easy." With a grunt, he drops all pretense. Lifting me off the ground, he carries me the few steps left to the bed and drops me with a bounce onto the mattress, following directly behind.

I give up on trying to tell him. I'll find a better way, later night or tomorrow. The snow will keep the bakery shut for a day or two and afford me time to figure out what to say. He tries to slide me to the head of the bed, but I pull him down where we lay. He's given me space since I returned from District Two and while I've been thankful for it, I'm tired of it by now.

His lips are a chaotic mess. They press against my mouth, my cheek, my ear, my neck. His hands tease as I gasp, arching up into him, pinning his hand between us. I fumble for his shirt, which catches on his chin in my haste to remove it. His pants put up even more of a fight as he's hesitant to pull away far enough to let me reach the zipper.

"Oh." The word is loud against my ear. His body freezes as he hovers over me. I glance down between our bodies to search for caught skin. I hate zippers. His hands fumble as he shifts atop me to hold his weight up on his elbows. "Oh," he says again, his eyes as rigid as his body as he stares down at me.

My hands freeze as they undo the button of his pants. "Yeah," I say, when I realize my words have caught up to him. "Took you long enough." I laugh nervously as I try to gauge his reaction, fully aware of the irony in my words.

"Bit distracted by other things."

I watch the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. "Understood."

"Are you sure?" he asks. His words are uncertain as he thinks I am, but happiness bursts from his eyes.

My hands slide up his chest, his muscles tensing beneath them, to his shoulders. Gripping them for support, I nod. I can't say the words again, not so soon and vulnerably.

"I only want it if you want it," he tells me. It's different than the times he's said it before. We aren't arguing this time. Now we stand on the same side to face a new unknown together.

He gives me this out, but I don't need it. I've made him wait long enough, and for the first time I think I can handle what comes next, when we jump off this cliff together. "Peeta?" It's hardly a whisper.

"Hmm?"

"Shut up and focus," I tell him. My grin slowly returns as I remember the perk of conception. "Babies don't make themselves."


	74. Family (Spring)

"Katniss, sweetheart." His hands graze my waist as he shuffles behind me. I catch his eye in the mirror as I fret over my messy braid. "Relax," he says, his tone as light as his touch. His arms curl around me, pulling me back against him.

The tension in my shoulders diffuses, tightly wound muscles slowly unraveling, as I lean back into him. My feet hurt, my stomach is queasy, and I am more bloated than a pregnant cow. To top it off, I cannot get my hair to cooperate to save my life this evening. "I am trying," I say through gritted teeth.

He cannot suppress a laugh. I yearn to step back and dig my heel into his toes and vanish that smile from his face. His thinks himself a master of stealth, but I don't miss the way his hands cup my stomach. I have been adamant that I do not want to go to the local clinic for regular checkups, but that doesn't stop him from fantasizing. As soon as he knew for sure, a metamorphosis shifted within him. That last little speck of darkness that clung to the corner of his soul was purged by a brilliant light of happiness and excitement.

Peeta was born to be a father. I still don't think I'm cut out for this, but I suppose it's too late to change my mind now. I wouldn't want to, though recent conversations on what to expect during pregnancy with my mother have almost convinced me otherwise. From what I've gathered from her advice, my aches and pain will only worsen. A wonderful prospect to look forward to. I'm already having to fight Peeta arrow and knife to convince him I'm still perfectly fit to hunt in the woods. I'm not even showing yet, though he swears he feels the baby kicking. I don't have the heart to tell him my mother says it's likely too soon, that's the sensation he feels is nothing but gas rumbling through my intestines.

"You look great." He kisses my neck, his lips pressing hard and firm as if reclaiming property. Then he stoops down to rest his chin on my shoulder, looking into the mirror I've been staring at for at least a quarter of an hour.

"You're getting better and better at lying," I remark dryly. With a grunt of frustration, I rake my fingers through the braid to untangle the weave. Running my fingers through my hair to trying to smooth over the lumps, I try again.

"You want a hand?" he asks.

I let him try to braid my hair once. I will never make that mistake again. But I do not want to carelessly toss his offer out the door. I make an offer to be as polite to him as possible these days, paying forward for the days where my hormones will rage like a bull inside me. "If you don't mind finding my shoes, I would greatly appreciate it."

With a butterfly kiss to my shoulder, left bare by the flimsy straps of the blouse I'm wearing, he sets off on his task. By the time he retrieves them and sets them on the floor by my feet, I've given up on the braid. No longer caring about its appearance, I tie it off with the ribbon looped between my pinkie and ring finger.

"Now, you recall we are just eating at Haymitch's right?" he asks. As he nimbly unbuttons his shirt and strips it off, I take the opportunity to study his profile as he stands in front of the dresser and rummages around for a clean one. A bit like the coffee calling the kettle black, but I say nothing. Instead, I admire the muscles in his shoulders as they flex. Too soon he drapes them in cotton. Though he no longer has to lug around the massive bags of flour in the bakery, he has done well to keep in shape. I note his physique with a bit of sadness, realizing I haven't paid much attention lately. Everything about us the last few weeks has been focused on the baby instead of us as two human beings on our own. I can only imagine what the rest of my life will be like.

My thoughts make me feel selfish, so I turn them away. "Haymitch said it was a special occasion," I remind him, explaining my desire to be at least somewhat presentable for our weekly dinner tonight.

Peeta tilts his head up from where he is bent over, tying his shoes. "Actually, I think we're the ones who mentioned we had special news to share tonight."

"Well, okay, but it's still special. And you misbuttoned your shirt," I tell him. He hasn't, but I smirk at my small victory when he stands up and studies his shirt quizzically for a beat.

"One of us is eventually going to have to start acting like an adult before the baby is born."

"Doesn't have to be me," I remind him. "And it certainly doesn't have to be today."

"You ready?" He grabs his usual tie from where is hangs off the side of his nightstand and ropes it around his neck. Knowing he's eventually going to ask, I save him the step. Crossing the room to stand before him, each step an imagined mini earthquake beneath my growing girth, I take the tie from his hands and work deftly to tie it. I can't help but smile as my fingers work the silk material around. It's the tie I used to blindfold him the night I told him I was ready to try. He swears the baby was conceived that very night.

Tightening the tie, I pull it down to make sure it hangs straight. With my hands against his chest, his heartbeat pulses beneath my palms. So strong, so secure. Just feeling it makes me feel safe, helps wipe away some of the worry that plagues me constantly now.

We come together without a word. The desire is second nature, the movement a learned motion. His kiss is soft, gentle, but it promises so much more. As he pulls away, he runs his thumb along the bottom of my lower lip to wipe away the slightly smeared lip balm I'm wearing. "I love you." He says it with a reverence that still makes my heart skip a beat all these years later.

"Back at you, Boy with the Bread." Catching his hand, I kiss the soft skin between his thumb and index finger.

"We'd better head next door. You know how he gets when we're late."

I hadn't thought it possible, but getting older has only made Haymitch more cantankerous. With a groan at the thought, I nod in agreement. Sliding my feet into my shoes which feel tighter with each passing day, I follow Peeta out into the hallway. With a glance back into the bedroom to flick off the lights, I marvel at how far we've come since I first moved into this room. Who would have thought.

Haymitch is waiting at the door. As soon as Peeta knocks, the door bursts forward on its hinges, startling both of us. "Dammit," I mutter, my hand jumping to my chest to keep my heart from exploding out. "You can't do that to people."

"I can do whatever I please, Sweetheart." All this time, and I can't seem to shake off his wonderful term of endearment. "Now come on, dinner is getting cold."

"Haymitch, we are," I glance at the clock on the wall as we pass into the living room, "three minutes late. Three."

He gets immeasurably grouchy when Effie has to leave town on business. As they've grown closer, she's managed to scrape away the harsher parts of his personality while she's with him. Unfortunately, without her near to keep him in check, his moods double in severity.

"Late is the key word you were meaning to focus on," he tells me instead as we follow the routine and make our way into the dining room. Though he no longer has Hazelle to lean on for cleanliness, Effie has shown an unpredictable affinity to housework, surprising all of us, Haymitch most of all. I think it's the only thing about her he really can't stand. He doesn't know what to do without a mess around him.

"So what's the big surprise?" he asks, wasting no time on small talk as Peeta slides my chair out for me and I sit down. Haymitch continues on past the kitchen bar to grab the food sitting on the kitchen island.

Peeta scoots my chair in to the table for me. His hands remain on the chair back, and I know he's waiting to let me decide if I want to tell Haymitch yet or not. It's been a spot of disagreement between us, though I'm honestly not sure why. I'm not ready to tell Haymitch yet, but I can't explain to Peeta why when he asks. It was hard enough to tell my mother, and I think I want to keep it close for now. Just in case. Things happen with pregnancies, especially this early on. I don't want to count my egg before it hatches.

Peeta, of course, wants to shout the news from the roof of the bakery and to put an advert in the news to let all of Panem know. I have never seen him so excited about anything in my entire life, and that includes the week long art benefit he got to host a few years back.

"You can tell him," I say as I try to mentally prepare.

"Tell me what?" Haymitch asks, returning to plop a plate down on the table in front of me. He sets the other one on the spot to my left, so Peeta drops into the chair on that side as he lets his arm linger across the back of my chair.

"You want to?" Peeta asks me.

I would rather drink rubbing alcohol. I can already guess the rude remarks we're going to have to endure tonight as we gift Haymitch with this entire new realm to goad me with. "Absolutely not," I say. Swiping the forest green cloth napkin from the table, another Effie touch, I set it in my lap to hide my fidgeting fingers.

"Okay." Peeta clears his throat and waits while Haymitch goes back to the kitchen for the last plate. When he returns and sits down across from us, Peeta spills the news. "Katniss is pregnant."

"With what?" Haymitch asks.

"I told you," I snap at Peeta out of the side of my mouth. Picking up my fork, I stab it sharply into my pork chop.

Silence falls over the table for a moment. The only sound is the scraping of utensils against plates. Then Haymitch drops his fork onto his plate and stares straight ahead at us. "You aren't joking?"

"Afraid not," I mumble, shoving the pork chop into my mouth to give it something to do other than talk.

"Well, I'll be damned." He scratches the top of his balding head, leaning back in his chair. Now he can't stop staring at us. The green beans and glazed pork chop on his plate are long forgotten. His gaze bores a hole in my head, directly between my eyes. "Does she know?" Haymitch asks, directing his question towards Peeta.

"Unfortunately yes, it seems so," Peeta says, as if confessing to an embarrassing secret. His right hand finds my left, his fingers sliding into mine to give my hand a squeeze.

Haymitch's hand moves to rub the stubble on his chin. My nerves fray under his unwavering gaze. "Well, there you have it, Sweetheart."

"Have what?" I could not have guessed a reaction anywhere close to what I'm experiencing now.

"You did it."

I choke on the bite of beans in my mouth. It goes down with a struggle, fighting its path to my esophagus. "Not by myself," I say, wholly embarrassed now.

"Pah." Haymitch waves off my comment. "Not what I meant, but interesting to see where your mind went. Still a teenager at heart, I see."

"I think you've started to go senile, old man," I tell him blatantly.

"Nawh," he says, though even he doesn't sound entirely convinced. "I just meant you finally deserve him."

Oh. Well. My head drops toward my plate, my cheeks gathering heat. It is a question I haven't asked him in ages, a benchmark I guess I'd kind of given up on ages ago. Hearing Haymitch say those words, without an ounce of irony to them, leaves me speechless. I'm not entirely sure, since we've known each other for so long now, but I believe it's the nicest thing he's ever said to me.


	75. Reminiscing (Summer)

It's getting harder and harder to walk these days. For one, I can't even see my feet anymore. My stomach balloons out, looking like it might burst at any moment. The only glimpses of my feet I catch are the toes of my boots as I shuffle around. And even my boots are no longer what they were before. They pinch my swollen feet from all sides, each difficult step laced with pain. Peeta suggests now and again while watching me struggle that I simply buy a larger pair. I refuse. I won't stay this bloated forever, and I don't want him getting any ideas about me becoming perpetually pregnant now that I've relented on the first child.

The walk to the Meadow is agony, a testament to every fiber of strength I muster up. My feet hurt; my back screams in agony. Name a part of my body and it almost certainly aches. I waddle, an unattractive duck passing through town. Peeta staunchly claims I am still as beautiful as the first day he laid eyes on me, but I know for a fact now that he's biased and sparing my heightened feelings. Haymitch gaffs every time he sees me, never failing to comment that I look even bigger than the last time he laid eyes on me. And even Hazelle is guilty of off-hand comments. Just last week she mentioned that Cressida didn't get as big as I am now throughout either of her pregnancies.

I do not take their comments mutely. My hormones rage off the charts, completely unpredictable, which has made me anything but levelheaded. In fact, it has made me downright rude. The best part is, it is almost expected of me. I use the excuse to my advantage, the only perk of this pregnancy business.

"Why don't you let me carry it the rest of the way?" Peeta suggests as he reaches towards my side. His long legs work tirelessly to keep in step with my small increments of movement.

"Why don't you shut your mouth and keep on walking?" I fire back as I attempt to support my lower back on my hand and lean into it to alleviate the pent-up stress. In my other hand, I clench the book tightly. It feels much heavier and bulkier than the last time I carried it. This is the first time it's left the Victors' Village, and it feels weird bringing it outside. But it's been so long since I've looked at it, and now more than ever I feel like I want to stay connected with my past.

My mother never made it out to Twelve for a long enough stay for me to show her the book that Haymitch, Peeta, and I made over the years. I would have loved her help, but it would have been too much for her. I know that, but it doesn't stop me from wanting. Just like knowing there's nothing I can do about this pregnancy now doesn't stop me from sleepless nights plagued with nightmares of things that could go wrong ten, fifteen years down the way.

"Katniss." He doesn't give me a choice this time as he swipes the book effortlessly from my arm. The entire left side of my body hurts from supporting it, the muscles in my upper arm seized up. Then again, my entire body hurts from supporting this baby. A girl, if Peeta is to be believed. The medical clinic has shiny metallic machines that can determine the sex of the baby, but I'm determined to do it the way my mother did. I'll know when it finally decides to grace us with its entrance into the world. Still, Peeta swears up and down to anyone that will listen that it's a girl constantly pressing on my bladder. 'As sweet and beautiful as her mother,' is his favorite thing to say. I only hope she has a more affable personality than I do. We don't need another Haymitch or Katniss sulking around town for the next few decades.

I yearn to snap a retort at him. Instead, I give him a grudging, "Thank you," as the pressure releases from my arm and the muscles relax. The Meadow has never felt so far away. By the time we reach the grassy patch on the outskirts of town, I am close to collapsing. I don't have the effort to hold myself up to wait for Peeta to lay out the blanket. Instead, I plop like a sack of flower to the ground while I let him prepare the site. When he finishes setting up, I scoot over on top of the blanket without getting back on my feet.

It's warm, but one of the cooler days we've had so far this summer. Still, we won't stay for long. I have no tolerance for heat anymore. My body only likes one particular temperature nowadays, though it's never the temperature I'm subjected to. I'm just thankful it doesn't look like it's going to rain this afternoon.

I extend my hands to Peeta, palms up and fingers motioning towards me. Taking my cue, he hands the book over. I place it delicately on top of my baby bump, which, I have recently discovered, is the perfect ledge for propping books onto. I ease the thick cover open. I don't have the heart to read through the entire book, but I skim through the pages. The wind catches my hair every once in a while, tickling my face with the lose strands. The wildflowers dance atop their stems as they sway gently in the breeze. It's a beautiful place if you don't know its storied past. Even now, it's hard to begrudge it. This place is so full of memories. Just like this book.

Peeta sits by my side, arm lose around my back. His artificial knee brushes against the side of my leg as he leans in to get a better look at some of the pages he doesn't remember as well. I don't remember the last time we took it out and looked at it. Before I got pregnant, for sure.

I take this life, my life, for granted sometimes. When times are good, I can almost forget everything we went through, everything we lost. My mind has a habit of locking it away until something triggers a memory and it all comes flooding out. I'm not sure if that makes it worse when I remember or not. I just know I don't ever want to forget. Rue. Finnick. Madge. Mags. While I don't think about them every day anymore, they are with me always. I catch sight of them, here and there, in the smallest of things. And Prim. She will be with me always, the closest to my heart. Even a daughter of my own could never replace that hole in my heart, though I think secretly Peeta hopes it might help.

As if he can sense my mood, he runs his hand up my side to cup my shoulder. Drawing me into him, he kisses my temple. His skin is cool against mine, his lips warm. I hope we will always have these moments of small intimacy. Where, if I close my eyes, I can pretend we're teenagers again. Even better, I can let myself believe it.

I'm thankful he came with me today. This afternoon feels more melancholy than most, and I'm not sure I would have been able to handle it on my own. I'm not sure how many more of these types of days I am going to get to enjoy before the baby comes, but I know the time is measured. Every time the midwife checks in on me, she suggests bedrest. I'm close to losing the fight, and Peeta battles more and more each day to try to convince me to stay home. A Mockingjay caged. It's not for me.

I still think the fresh air does me good. Getting out of the house does me good. Having Peeta here, keeping me from diving too far into my thoughts, does me good. I don't need a doctor to tell me that anymore. Each day, it seems to hurt a little less. Each day, we continue to heal. I don't know what the future holds, and with a child on the way it's more uncertain than ever. I choose to believe that our future will be a happy one. Peeta deserves that.

And I think I finally do too.

 _Author's Note_ : To all the readers who have followed this story to the ending, thank you. There are no words to express how grateful I am for the reviews, the favorites, the story alerts, and the views. I started this story for my own selfish enjoyment in a post Hunger Game binge reading withdrawal. I decided to share it, thinking it was worth putting out on the world wide web if even just one other person enjoyed it. Your support has truly humbled me. I hope you have had as much fun reading this story as I had writing it. And I aim to learn from your comments and suggestions for the next go around.


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